


The Killer of Kings and Queens

by Luuna (you_know_them_trees)



Series: Songs of Tamriel [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Action/Adventure, Aftermath of Torture, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Racism, Slow Build, Thalmor spy, there once was a spy who fell in love with the enemy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-02
Updated: 2017-08-05
Packaged: 2018-06-05 23:41:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 48,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6728080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/you_know_them_trees/pseuds/Luuna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Get close to Ulfric Stormcloak, the Thalmor had told him, but he hadn’t meant to get this close.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Blood and Steel

Kaermo wrapped his robe tighter around himself. The climate in Skyrim was far from the warmth of the Summerset Isles, even in the beginning of summer. He would have dressed in a more suitable fashion if he had known it would be this cold.

“You’ll get used to it soon enough,” one of the company’s Imperial soldiers said.

Kaermo glanced at her, seeing her smile.

“The cold I mean,” she added and gestured at the snow covering the pasture. It had stopped falling from the sky by now, at least, but the ground was already white from the snowfall.

Maybe one could get used to the chill and the harsh terrain. But it seemed a futile effort when Kaermo would rather finish his mission and get out of Skyrim again as fast as he could.

A Thalmor guard walked up to them and placed himself in Kaermo’s line of sight. “We will not be staying for long. Ulfric Stormcloak is soon to be captured.”

“There is new information about his whereabouts I suppose?” Kaermo asked, lowering his voice so that the Imperial wouldn’t be able to hear his words.

The guard nodded and pointed at the wagon in the end of the caravan. “The First Emissary wants to speak with you, sir.”

Kaermo turned around to approach the wagon without another word. Elenwen never took kindly to having to wait for her subordinates.

Another Thalmor guard opened the doors to the carriage, lowering his head as Kaermo climbed in. He bowed to the Emissary seated inside before settling down opposite her. The interior of the wagon was made of oak, with seats in some plush fabric. A faint smell of mountain flowers lingered in the air.

The Emissary nodded at him while her sharp, yellow eyes searched his face. Her blonde hair was cut at her shoulders, for practicality no doubt, unlike his own. “Ulfric Stormcloak has been spotted at Mixwater Mill by Tullius’s men. The Imperials think he and his Stormcloaks will pass through Darkwater Crossing on their way to Riften. General Tullius is planning an ambush as we speak.”

“You want me there then, Madame?”

Elenwen smiled. “I presume you know what to do. Do not stray from the plan.”

“And if they manage to capture him?”

“Oh, they will. Tullius is more than capable of doing that, presuming his informants have told him the truth.”

Kaermo frowned. “I thought you would inform Ulfric Stormcloak in turn, letting him slip away.”

“He won’t have any reason to trust you then, will he?”

In the ensuing silence, Kaermo bowed his head again. He rested his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands together. The thin layer of sweat covering them caused them to stick to each other.

She wanted him to play the traitor longer than she had earlier let on. Longer than the usual quick mission.

He pursed his lips. “Can you ensure that I will be granted full immunity afterwards, Madame?”

Elenwen glanced out the window and Kaermo followed her gaze, seeing nothing but thick tree trunks of the forest they were moving into. “You have nothing to worry about, Kaermo. The Aldmeri Dominion is grateful for your continued efforts.”

Kaermo straightened his back, keeping his words to himself. Elenwen didn’t just dislike waiting, she wouldn’t like to be questioned either.

“Was there anything else, Madame?”

“Be discrete, professional and get as close as you can.”

†††

The caravan made camp at the edge of the forest, where the carriages and horses were barely hidden by the scarce trees and bushes. Kaermo switched his robes for a thicker leather garb, readied his horse and bid his fellow Thalmor friends farewell, before leaving as soon dusk settled. He made sure not to let any of the Imperials notice him. All they’d know later on would be that one of the Altmer nobles in Elenwen’s company had disappeared during the night. Maybe they would even hear rumors of a High-elf in Ulfric’s service, if everything went well.

Kaermo kept leading his horse as quietly as he could until he had left the camp far behind him. He could no longer see the fires or hear the men, as he sat up on his horse and continued his journey in a quick trot.

The dirt road led up the mountain. For now the terrain didn’t seem too difficult but he had been warned that it would turn steep soon enough. Elenwen had provided him with one of the company’s strongest steeds and if he were lucky the he would be able to leave the mountain behind him before the first rays of sun.

He had more ground to cover than the Stormcloaks to get to Darkwater crossing, but a troop traveled much slower than one man on a horse. The only way he could complete the mission would be if Ulfric Stormcloak trusted him and no Nord would trust an Altmer if he didn’t prove himself first.

†††

The road to Darkwater Crossing took a night and a day on horseback. He reached Ivarstead at sunrise, ate a small breakfast at the Vilemyr Inn and continued into the forests of the Rift. Frostbite spiders, wolves and bears were crowding under the canopy, slowing him down with their repeated attempts to fight. The wilderness of Skyrim was more dangerous than any region of Tamriel that he had visited before. The only places close enough to compare were the mountainsides crawling with Cliff racers in Morrowind.

At noon he stopped to eat again. This time he made a fire at the shore of Lake Geir, where he could hear the roar of the waterfalls draining into Darkwater River. Having the river so near let him relax for a while, as the most difficult parts of the journey to the Crossing were behind him. Now he only had to follow the river and he would be there.

†††

The wet roofs of the houses in Darkwater Crossing shone in the sunset. Kaermo made his horse slow down to a stop and dismounted as he reached the first cottage. The only people he saw were a pale and blonde Nord woman and a female child with, as far as he could tell with humans, the same complexion as the adult. They were standing by one of the houses and stared at him from across the street.

He put on a neutral face and waved in greeting. “Is there an inn or some establishment of the like here in town?”

The woman muttered something to herself and the girl snickered. Kaermo couldn’t distinguish if the sound was amused or derogatory. Altmer children were unusual and he hadn’t met very many of other races either.

“You’re not dressed like one of those Thalmor-bastards,” the woman stated in the melodic accent of the Nords.

Kaermo crossed his arms over his chest. “You are a mer-hating Nord then, I suppose? Since one cannot differentiate from the bad apples of one’s race.”

“Wood-elves never hurt anybody and Sondas takes good care of my little girl. We have plenty of High-elves in Skyrim too, but the only ones allowed on Stormcloak territory are the ones we can trust.”

“I have more reason than any of you to hate the Thalmor for what they’ve done,” Kaermo replied and clenched his jaw.

“Sure you do.”

The girl frowned. “If the Thalmor are like the Stormcloaks then they don’t care about hurting their own people. Don’t be mean to the elf-man, mom.”

“Hrefna!” the woman exclaimed.

Kaermo narrowed his eyes. Elenwen had told him that the Nords in the eastern parts of Skyrim were united under Ulfric, but here was a child speaking her mind openly. Obviously, not all of them respected their Jarl if such criticism could be said in front of a stranger.

“I’m on my way to Windhelm,” he confided and the woman glanced at him.

“Really?”

“Where else would I go? There is no other man who might be able to stand up to the Dominion, when even the Empire bowed their necks,” Kaermo declared, keeping his gaze locked with hers, and smiled tight-lipped.

“If that is truly how you feel… Well, it can’t hurt to tell you since you’re already here. We’ve no inn or tavern in Darkwater Crossing, but the miners here in town have been plagued by a horrible cough and not all of their sleeping rolls are used anymore. I’m sure they’d let you sleep there for a few gold coins.”

“Thank you.”

Kaermo turned to his horse, curling his lip while his head was hidden by the stallion’s thick mane. If a simple Nord woman took this much convincing to tell an Altmer about some sleeping rolls, then he would need months to earn Ulfric Stormcloak’s trust.

†††

Kaermo woke to sound of shouting and swords. He crawled out of his sleeping bag and jumped up on two legs, reaching for his daggers as he moved. Barely had he managed to grip their hilts when a Stormcloak soldier wearing the telltale blue armor stumbled into him. Kaermo pulled him behind himself. If the Nords wanted a demonstration of his “loyalties” then they would get one, he thought as he raised his weapons and faced his first opponent.

“Run off to your General if you’re scared,” Kaermo taunted at the Imperial soldier.

The Stormcloak behind his back snorted unintelligently, but seemed to be back in form since he placed himself at Kaermo’s right side and gripped his sword again. Both of them attacked at the same time, their blades meeting the Imperial’s with loud clangs.

Kaermo’s fingers itched with the urge to use his magic. Some lightning bolts and some sparks and he could take down the closest Imperials in a few seconds. With his daggers on the other hand, he had to rely on the Imperials unease to kill an Altmer or the swords of the Stormcloaks for protection. It was an unsettling thought, but he knew how wary the Nords were of Destruction magic.

“Hey, you High-elf! To me!” someone shouted.

The voice came from a robed woman on the other side of the street. Kaermo slashed one last time at the Imperial in front of him, before dancing away from the return blow and running across the road. Up close, he realized that she bore no weapons and that her hands shone with Resurrection magic. To think that even a Nord could be capable of magic amazed him.

“You fight like a milk-drinker,” the woman greeted him.

Kaermo made a face and threw one of his daggers into an Imperial’s head. It connected with his eye and the man went down screaming. Wincing at the sound and the sight, Kaermo reached for the now bloody blade and stabbed his next opponent in the stomach. “Is that so?”

“But at least you fight,” she added smiling and moved her hands, in a way that he recognized as the Healing hands-spell. The glow transferred from her to him and he felt the warmth of her magic spreading through him.

Imperials were flocking around them. How Tullius had managed to gather a force this strong, in such a small amount of time, was astounding. It wasn’t worrying though, as long as Elenwen was aware of the General’s capabilities for warfare.

“Follow me, High-elf. Ralof needs our help at the Darkwater Pass,” the Stormcloak healer shouted and started running out of the village.

Kaermo hesitated only for a second before following her. He didn’t know where Ulfric was anyways, so it couldn’t hurt to stay with a soldier who might speak well of him after the fight.

They sprinted through the darkness; the Stormcloak first and him after. He slashed and cut anything that got in his way, his blades glinting in the moon light. It was only when the woman suddenly stopped that he slowed down.

“Gunjar!” she exclaimed.

Kaermo looked over her shoulder at the red-haired man kneeling on the ground, with a bleeding wound in his right shoulder. The female Stormcloak summoned her healing magic again and Kaermo turned his back to her. He took a defensive stance with his knives in front of him, but none of the Imperials approached. Instead they swarmed around them with their bows readied with arrows.

“Lilija,” the man, Gunjar, groaned. “Thank you.”

Kaermo glanced at them. She helped him to his feet again while watching the Imperials with a frown on her face. Maybe she hadn't realized that the fight was over.

“Round up the survivors!” someone shouted.

Kaermo narrowed his eyes and scanned the crowd for other Stormcloaks. He recognized that voice. It was General Tullius himself and if the General was here then so must Ulfric Stormcloak be.

The Imperials suddenly all straightened up and saluted. In a line between them walked a muscular man with greying hair. Kaermo looked the General in the eye and saw the moment when he recognized him.

“You’ve switched to the wrong side, Altmer,” he said evenly. “The Stormcloaks want your kind out of Skyrim.”

“I fight for whoever I want to fight for,” Kaermo answered and shifted his grip on the daggers.

The General’s eyes flew to his hands. “Weapons on the ground. Now!”

Kaermo stayed still until he could see Gunjar lowering his axe in the corner of his eye. He mimicked the Stormcloak’s movement and crossed his arms over his chest after ridding himself of his knives. When he looked at his fingers he saw that they were smudged with the blood of Imperials. He raised his head and cleared his thoughts from any stray guilt. His missions sometimes included killing other people’s enemies. It didn’t help to ponder over it.

“Gather up the prisoners!” Tullius ordered, walking into the crowd again. “And bring me the Jarl and the Altmer.”

Kaermo tilted his head. He could come up with three different theories why the General would want him. Either he suspected the Thalmor was involved, he thought Kaermo had some ulterior motive himself or he believed Kaermo should be handed over to the Dominion. Two of his theories might lead to torture while the last one would get him killed, unless Elenwen kept her word.

Two Imperial soldiers grabbed his arms, pulling him with them. While one of them bound his hands together behind his back, the other pulled out a bottle from his leather pouch. The liquid inside it shone with a sickly grey tint, akin to the color of Nirnroot.

The soldier sneered as he pried Kaermo’s mouth open and fed him the concoction. It spread through him; he could feel it burning inside him and he would have fallen to his knees if the soldiers hadn’t been holding him up.

“What was that?” Kaermo demanded, gasping for breath.

“We can’t have you using that magic of yours now, can we?”

It was some sort of magicka suppressor. They were banned in the Aldmeri Dominion since losing one’s magic was considered a fate worse than death. Only years of training to keep himself collected stopped Kaermo from snarling at the Imperials. Instead he hung limply in their grip, trying not to show how much the loss of his magic unnerved him while being unable to stop the energy from leaving his body.

†††

The General resided in a tent put up in a clearing outside of Darkwater Crossing. He stood bowed over a Skyrim map, frowning at it as though it had offended him. Placed on different holds were small flags; red and blue, and even though Ulfric himself had been captured, half of the flags were still blue.

In the tent with them was also Ulfric Stormcloak. He had a gag in his mouth and his hands were bound behind his back. His long blonde hair was ruffled and sweaty and his light-green eyes glared at both Tullius and Kaermo.

General Tullius smirked at the look on his face. “I guess that answers the question if you knew the Altmer was fighting for your cause.”

Ulfric narrowed his eyes. What Kaermo had previously thought, of his trust taking months to earn, seemed to be true. The man glared more harshly at him – just for being an Altmer – than at the man who had just ambushed and captured him.

The Imperial soldiers who had brought Kaermo to the tent let go of him and he immediately found himself swaying as though he would topple to the floor. Gritting his teeth, he pulled himself together, straining his back to keep straight.

“Why did you bring me here?” he asked.

“It is highly unlikely for someone like you to genuinely support a rebellion in Skyrim,” Tullius answered. “Did the Emissary send you here to spy on us?”

Kaermo raised his eyebrows. “Would you even believe me if I said no?”

“Of course not. But your answer tells me more than your silence would.”

Ulfric grunted, the sound stifled under his gag. He seemed to have tired of glaring but he still stared at them with a creased brow.

“You can’t interrogate him if you are scared of his voice,” Kaermo said.

The General smiled slightly, probably taking notice of his change of subject. “I don’t need to interrogate him. His actions have never befuddled me and the problem that he poses will die with him. A quick execution and I will crush this rebellion.”

Kaermo froze – his thoughts spinning from how he would rescue Ulfric to what Elenwen would do to him if the rebel leader died – as he decided which reaction would be appropriate for a Stormcloak Altmer. He let his mouth fall open, showing how much the news surprised him. Had Elenwen known about this? Was that why she felt it necessary to have a man close to Ulfric?

“You cannot just kill him! Fighting for one’s country is not a crime!” he exclaimed, wincing inwardly at how much like the uncivilized Nords he sounded.

“Why does this matter to you?”

“The Empire licks the Aldmeri Dominion’s boots with all their actions,” Kaermo snapped. “You humans think we all are Thalmor, all puppets under our rulers. You never realize that getting away from those forsaken Isles might be the best thing that ever happened to one of my kind!”

Barely had he spit the words out, seemingly fuming and slightly scared, when he heard her laugh. He turned around, swaying a bit as his control over his empty body wavered, and saw her walk into the tent.

“Oh, how sad that you feel that way,” Elenwen mocked. “I was wondering where you had ended up, Kaermo, but I really shouldn’t have wondered at all. Stirring up problems just like your parents, are you? How original…”

General Tullius glanced between them both, frowning almost as deeply as Ulfric. “Madame, you arrived faster than I’d thought you would.”

She graced him with a small smile before turning to Kaermo again. “Are you planning on executing this one? I certainly wouldn’t let him run free if I were you.”

Tullius straightened. “He killed and injured many of my men, I won’t let him go alive.”

 “I was defending myself!” Kaermo protested. “We were attacked by your men, presumably on your orders. And yet you blame me for not standing still and letting your soldiers kill me!”

Tullius made a quick gesture with his hand and two Imperial guards immediately stood at his side. “I need to speak with the Emissary in private. Bring back the prisoners to the others and make sure they do not escape.”

One of the guards, a blonde man in typical Imperial garb, grabbed Kaermo’s arm and dragged him out of the tent. Kaermo kept struggling the whole way to the prisoner’s cages and didn’t stop until the man had pushed him inside and locked the door behind him. Inside his confinement he sank to the ground and leaned back against the bars, the movement straining his shoulders as his hands were still bound.

He could see the other cages from where he sat. Most were teeming with men and women in Stormcloak armor. But a few of the prisoners were alone just like him. He saw the Stormcloak healer that he had fought with earlier. She inclined her head at him when she caught him looking, her face grim and bruised. Obviously, the Imperials didn’t let her use her Restoration magic. They had probably doused her with the same potion as him.

Outside their cages, Imperials walked past. Most were carrying something, whether it be bodies; wounded or dead, or armor and weapons. The equipment seemed to have been taken from the dead judging by the holes in the fabric and the blood on the blades.

He could see blurred faces with gouged out eyes flashing in front of him. Blood streaming over humans and blades cutting into their skin. With his fingers to the palms of his hands, he pushed the images out of his mind, pressing until his nails broke the skin.

Thalmor. Elenwen’s orders. The Aldmeri Dominion. His family.

This was the way. He could not be weighed down by death.

†††

A group walked up to Kaermo’s cage and he got to his feet in seconds. He glared at the guards but didn’t move as they unlocked the gate and threw Ulfric Stormcloak inside. One of the men got in the cage with them and pushed Ulfric to the ground, binding him to a pole, before leaving again.

Kaermo stared at the Jarl who met his gaze angrily. “They are doing this to spite you, aren’t they?” Kaermo muttered and sat down.

Ulfric grunted against the gag in his mouth.

At least Kaermo wasn’t alone anymore. But the company of a barbaric rebel leader was barely a step up from being a lonely prisoner. A barbaric rebel leader who couldn’t even speak and who probably would do nothing but Shout at him if he could.

Kaermo snorted and rested his head on the iron bars. The Imperials at least had to let the prisoners out of the cages for the execution and he would come up with a plan to get himself, and Jarl Ulfric, free before that.

†††

The Empire were transporting the prisoners to Helgen for their execution. As such they were moving back the way that Kaermo rode only a few days ago. He had never been more certain that Elenwen had contacts close to the General. She had known exactly where the Imperials would bring Ulfric, before most of them had even known themselves. Her caravan with Thalmor Justiciars and guards were probably still camping outside the town, waiting for the Imperials to arrive with their wagons.

During the day, Kaermo and three other prisoners were placed on a carriage and during the night, Kaermo and Ulfric sat in their cage in mutual silence. Since his mission was to get close to the man, he felt as though he should use the time to make Ulfric curious about him. But from the looks he got from Ulfric, he seemed to prefer the silence to the few times when Kaermo tried a one-sided conversation.

The morning of the second day of the journey, someone tripped Kaermo on his way to the wagon. He fell headfirst to the ground and his ragged robes got soaked through with muddy water. His long blond hair was streaked with it when he raised his head to spit out some dirt. When he jumped to his feet and turned around, he saw some of the Stormcloaks smile at him.

“You should’ve helped the lady to her feet,” one of them snickered.

“Oh, was it a lady? I thought the goldenrod was a Falmer who’d crawled its way up from the caves.”

Kaermo glared at them and clenched his fists, the fingers aching with the need to burn something up. “You S’wits wouldn’t know the difference between a horse and a Nord woman,” he said, but the Dunmeri insult probably went over their heads.

He heard laughter and glanced around. The Imperials were stopping to watch the fight and they seemed just as amused as the Stormcloaks. The question was who they were rooting for, him or the barbarians.

The Nords advanced on him again and he backed up, bracing himself for their kicks or punches, when a blonde brute of a Stormcloak got between them. “The High-elf fought the Imperial-bastards with us at the Crossing. You have no shame if you attack one of our own.”

“The puny elf will never be one of us, Ralof. Skyrim is for us Nords!”

“He helped Lilija and Gunjar,” Ralof snapped.

Neither of the Nords got a chance to reply as the Imperials started herding the prisoners towards the carriages again. Kaermo breathed out and turned around to get up on his carriage when someone kicked his leg. He fell forward and, since his hands were still bound behind his back, he had no way to brace himself for the impact that was the floor of the wagon colliding with his head with a loud crack.

†††

“Ah, you’ve woken up.”

Kaermo groaned and focused his gaze on the person speaking. His vision was still a bit blurry but he thought he could distinguish Ralof’s blonde hair and bearded face.

“How long was I out?”

“The rest of the trip. We’re almost at Helgen.”

Kaermo shook himself, immediately regretting the action when it made him aware of his splitting headache. “By Auri-El…”

Someone made a sound of dislike and when he looked to his right, he saw Ulfric with the ever present gag.

“Fine,” Kaermo muttered. “By Akatosh.”

Ralof laughed. “You understand his grumbling?”

Kaermo kept himself from sighing. What else than the use of an Altmeri word would the elf-hating barbarian have to complain about?

“We have shared a cell for a few nights,” he said aloud.

The fourth man on the wagon leaned forward. “What’s wrong with him?”

“Watch your tongue, horse-thief! This is Jarl Ulfric, the true High-King of Skyrim.”

“Ulfric!? But if they managed to capture you…? By the Gods, where are they taking us?!”

Ralof smiled, his face grim. “Sovngarde awaits.”

†††

Elenwen was already in Helgen when they got there. She sat atop her horse, flanked by two Thalmor Justiciars. Kaermo heard Ralof muttering something about ‘damn, elves’ but he kept watching the Thalmor. He recognized one of them. It was Ondolemar; the man in charge of enforcing the Talos-worship ban. Kaermo hadn’t seen him in years, though it looked like he hadn’t changed much. He still kept his hair hidden under his dark robes, but now the stubble on his chin was streaked grey as it had not been before.

The first time they’d met had been at The Merchants Inn in the Imperial City almost two hundred years ago.

“General Tullius, sir. The executioner is ready!” an Imperial said, startling Kaermo from his thoughts.

The carriage finally stopped on a small town square. One by one the Stormcloaks got off the wagons and lined up for the Imperials. The Imperial in charge of their wagon turned to Kaermo and asked for his name. It was on the list, apparently right next to Lilija’s and Ulfric’s since he got placed between them for the execution. He turned slightly to Lilija and whispered: “Do you have the use of your magic?”

She glanced at him, shaking her head slightly. “They gave me some sort of potion.”

A roar from the sky made Kaermo look up. He couldn’t see anything strange and none of the humans reacted so maybe this was nothing out of the ordinary. He went back to flexing his hands against the bindings as a Priestess of Arkay started reciting the last rites.

He could throw himself on the executioner, maybe at least pushing him to the ground, and give the Stormcloaks the distraction they needed to act themselves. But that would most likely get him killed and the mission was to get close to Ulfric, not sacrifice himself for him.

Then he heard the roar again. This time when he looked up he saw something in the distance. He was still staring at it, when an Imperial pushed him towards the block. The push made him stumble forwards and he had barely regained his balance when he felt a foot to his back and was forced down to his knees. His head slammed into the cold stone hard enough to make his already aching head throb with pain. He kept his eyes on the headsman, breathing slowly through his mouth and kicked out with his foot against the man’s knees.

The executioner groaned but remained upright and Kaermo lifted his foot for another kick when something – a giant beast – landed on top of one of the city towers. It roared and red meteors began falling from the sky.

People screamed and ran like scared hens around him. Arrows flew after the beast but they didn’t seem to harm it.

Kaermo jumped to his feet, his head still pounding and his vision a bit blurry. But the Imperials if not that creature would kill him if he stayed so he had to move. He ran, searching for Ulfric with his gaze and sprinting to his side when he saw him leading a group of Stormcloaks into another tower.

“It seems the legends are true!” Ralof exclaimed.

Ulfric shook his head, now free of the gag. “Legends don’t burn down villages.”

“Legends?” Kaermo asked.

Most of the Stormcloaks stared at him with narrowed eyes and drawn brows and the ones who had tripped him earlier looked especially angry, but Lilija answered his question.

“The return of the dragons have been foretold. It is said that Alduin, the World Eater, would once again roam Tamriel,” she said and gestured for him to turn around. When he had his back to her, he felt her hands on his bindings before they fell off.

“Huh,” Kaermo longed to speak of these dragon legends with the scholars of the College of Whispers. He had, of course, been aware that some prophesies and legends centered on the Nords, but he never would have thought that one of them would actually turn out to be true. It seemed almost ironic that a true prophesy would exist in a province that disliked magic.

“We must move,” Ulfric stated.

Ralof nodded. “Up these stairs. Follow me!”

They ran together, the Stormcloaks and Kaermo, and he made sure to stay close to the Jarl. With a living (and fire breathing) dragon up and about, he couldn’t be too careful trying keep Ulfric alive.

The wall blew into pieces in front of them and two soldiers were crushed under the debris. Through the newly made hole, the dragon stuck its large head and breathed flames that forced Kaermo to push himself and Ulfric against the closest wall, in order to avoid getting roasted. Neither of them were Dunmer – who could cloak themselves in fire without any harm – after all.

As soon as the fire had burned out and the dragon had left, Jarl Ulfric pushed Kaermo away so hard he almost fell to the floor. “What do you think you’re doing, elf?” he snapped.

“Saving your ever-ungrateful person,” Kaermo quipped. He might not care if the man lived or died himself, but Elenwen would probably kill him if Ulfric died. A failing spy was worse than a dead spy to her.

Ulfric stared at him, but the wrinkle on his forehead seemed to be from confusion rather than anger. “Why?” he asked.

Kaermo licked his lips and glanced at the Stormcloaks while he pondered over his answer. “You heard what I told General Tullius.”

“Getting away from the Thalmor does not equal joining the Stormcloaks.”

“There isn’t really a way of escaping them,” Kaermo said. He had heard stories about ‘punishment and reeducation’ while in Alinor. But only the ones lucky enough to be allowed to live got that treatment.

Kaermo turned his back on Ulfric to climb out the hole. The Jarl was still frowning when he landed next to him on the burnt floor of the neighboring house, but he didn’t say anything more.

†††

The dragon kept circling around Helgen, breathing fire and eating the people who got too close to it. Its talons and tail slashed at the Imperial soldiers trying to fight it while their arrows and swords didn’t seem to injure it at all. Some ran when they saw how little effect their weapons had but General Tullius had gathered a group of soldiers around him that still fought to hold their ground, while the inhabitants of Helgen and their fellow soldiers fled or died.

The Stormcloaks didn’t bother with fighting the beast. They ran through the town and into an Imperial keep that was – hopefully – sturdy enough to keep the dragon out for a while at least. The keep was made out of stone and seemed to be built right out of the mountain as its corridors turned to caves and tunnels. On their way through, the Stormcloaks encountered torturers, soldiers and spiders, but the opponents were no match for them.

Kaermo got some armor and grabbed a greatsword from one of the dead Imperials, but the weapon was too heavy for him to fight very well with. He caught Lilija watching him once with her eyebrows drawn together but whatever she thought of, she didn’t say anything and he didn’t have the time to ask.

Finally Ralof shouted that he could see light at the end of one of the tunnels. They all hurried after him, some smiling and some grim; as though they expected it to be a trick. But as they got closer to the opening all of them breathed a sigh of relief. When they got out of the mountain, Ulfric had barely opened his mouth to say something when they heard the roaring again and saw the dragon fly over their heads.

“It’s heading to Riverwood!” Ralof exclaimed and started running with Gunjar and a few others not far behind.

Kaermo readied himself to go after them but when he glanced at Ulfric, the man didn’t move.

Instead he stared after them – watching as they disappeared into the sparse forest covering the mountainside – and his knuckles gripping his axe turned white. “I cannot show myself in Riverwood. Jarl Balgruuf will take it as a sign that I’m attacking Whiterun Hold.”

“You should get back to Windhelm, Jarl Ulfric,” Lilija said, bowing her head as she spoke to him. “Balgruuf has guards in Riverwood and Ralof knows how to handle himself. They’ll protect the people if needed. There’s nothing we can do.”

“You’re right… I cannot do anything from here. I need to speak with Galmar and I need to step up this fight.”

“We can get horses from Hjornskar Head-Smasher. We should be able to make it to his camp without being noticed by the guards.”

One of the other Stormcloaks interjected. “We’re too many for that. If we want to sneak by Whiterun, then we need to split up.”

Most of the Stormcloaks made sounds of disapproval. But before anyone got the chance to say anything, Ulfric cleared his throat and everyone immediately turned to him. “We’ll stay here and hide in the forest while two of us gather the horses and bring them back here. I do not want to alert either the Empire or Balgruuf of our presence.”

Kaermo pursed his lips. Being one of the people to perform this task might increase their trust in him, but at the same time he was loath to leave Ulfric behind. While he was mulling over the dilemma, Lilija made the choice for him.

“I’ll do it if I can have the elf with me. We look the least like Stormcloaks and could probably walk into Whiterun without anyone suspecting us,” she declared, with just a little bit of glaring as she watched her fellow Stormcloaks, daring anyone to object.

Ulfric opened his mouth as to protest but closed it again and nodded. “If you’re sure…”

“I am.”

Kaermo and Lilija left immediately when they had gotten Ulfric’s permission to do so. Lilija was quick for a human, but with her much shorter legs, she soon seemed to tire of the pace he kept. He sighed inwardly but slowed down a bit. Why humans tended to protest Mer superiority over Man was beyond him, especially when Altmer were stronger both with magic and speed while the strongest of Men only shone in close combat with battle hammers and axes.

They ran through the woods and swam across the river in order to avoid meeting the Whiterun-hold guards on patrol in Riverwood. While they might be the least suspicious couple of the Stormcloaks, people probably would notice an Altmer in the company of a Nord and they couldn’t be too careful.

They followed the road towards the city of Whiterun; with its wooden walls and lavender covered grounds, until they reached a small group of houses. From the smell surrounding them, Kaermo guessed it to be a meadery. Nord mead was one of the few things even the Thalmor seemed to appreciate about Skyrim as it was often provided during their travels, but Kaermo had never acquired the taste for it.

Lilija pointed at the mountain on the other side of the river they’d crossed earlier. “The Whiterun Stormcloak camp is a bit up the mountainside.”

Kaermo nodded and was just about to start running again when Lilija grabbed his arm.

“Why don’t you use your magic in battle?” she asked.

He turned slightly towards her, watching her in the corner of his eye. Was she accusing or was she just curious? Her face was difficult to interpret. She neither smiled nor glared, only looked at him.

“The Imperials gave me the same potion as you.”

She frowned at him. “I meant earlier, at Darkwater.”

Had she noticed him trying to suppress his magic or did she just assume he was a mage because of his race?

 “I… you Nords are more often than not distrustful of magic users,” he muttered.

“We Nords appreciate the show of strength in battle, only you and I prove our worth with spells instead of swords. I saw you with that greatsword earlier, it clearly isn’t the weapon that you should be fighting with.”

He shook his head and started running in the direction she had pointed earlier. It had felt natural to him not to use his magic while surrounded by Nords. He had acted in a similar way when he was in the Imperial city. Destruction magic was feared all over Tamriel and the only clear exceptions were in Morrowind and the Summerset Isles. By fitting his personality and combat style to the prejudices and norms of the province he worked in, he usually managed to avoid being feared or hated for his magic abilities. Of course some people wondered why he didn’t fight with fire or lightning like most of his kind, but he had gotten so good at dual-wielding his knives that it could be believed to be his area of expertise.

Lilija, who’d caught up with him again, continued her line of questioning. “I don’t usually demand answers from every recruit. But I don’t understand you and while I might want to trust you, I find it difficult.”

“Why?” he asked. The answer, if she had one, could be useful for his future work. This mission would go much quicker if he could understand what the Nords thought.

“You haven’t given us any reason to. You fight with us, with weapons that aren’t your own, for a cause and a country that isn’t your own, against the people your kind supports.”

He wanted to laugh at her for thinking that the Dominion supported the Empire. Had she forgotten the Great War? Did she not remember how _his kind_ had forced the Imperials to submission?

Other Altmeri people would’ve laughed at her while he had to clear up her contradicting beliefs in him. “I fight because the Empire could not best the Thalmor. I fight because Hammerfell could, because you can and because I would be dead if I didn’t,” he stated.

“We have the same enemy,” she concluded.

He smiled at her. “Which makes us friends.”

†††

Hjornskar Head-Smasher lent them half a dozen horses and supplies to cover most of the ride to Windhelm. Lilija thanked him while he glared distrustfully at Kaermo, who left the Commander’s tent to ready the animals instead.

The trip back to the others took less than a third of the time it had before. They rode hard and followed the road for most parts. It was almost impossible to hide six neighing horses in the forest and Kaermo longed for the company of a Bosmer who might have been able to persuade the animals to keep quiet. After a few attempts of trying to sneak past Riverwood, they gave up and just galloped past the village. Lilija was smiling giddily by the time they got back to the Stormcloaks. Her cheeks were flushed red and her eyes glistened with tears from the strong wind to her face. Kaermo watched the emotions flash on her face and realized that he had never seen an elf so emotional from something so little. Humans seemed much like children to him.

Ulfric must be an exception though. The man’s facial expressions varied between anger, confusion and a neutral one that betrayed nothing of what he felt. While Kaermo wore other’s emotions to hide his own, Ulfric quite often didn’t seem to show anything at all.

“We will split up. Ride for Windhelm in couples, two and two. Take different routes and avoid all Imperial legion soldiers and hold guards,” Ulfric ordered while dividing the horses between his men.

Kaermo stood by, watching them. Ulfric gathered some of the soldiers to talk out of earshot from the others. He knew that Jarl Ulfric would not assign him a partner or a horse. He knew that he was of no importance to the Stormcloak cause or to the Jarl himself. And he understood that it wouldn’t change for all his efforts, if he didn’t do something that forced the man to see him as the person he pretended to be.

He needed them to know him as a victim of the Thalmor and not just as an Altmer who didn’t show where his loyalties lied. But he also needed to prove himself to be strong, honorable and useful to the rebellion. To be able to influence Ulfric he had to become someone of importance. An officer, a friend, an informer. He had to become a proper Nord hero.

“How does one become a Stormcloak?” he asked Lilija.

“You’d probably do best if you joined the Stormcloaks the normal way.”

Kaermo frowned at her. “I don’t follow you.”

“There is a test, for all the new recruits and an oath to swear. It’s how all of us joined. You’re doing it the wrong way, fighting with us without being a Stormcloak.”

“And even an Altmer is allowed to join?”

Before she had a chance to answer, Jarl Ulfric gestured for her to come to him. “Come to Windhelm and we’ll see,” Lilija said and smiled ruefully as she left him.


	2. The Dragonborn Comes

The Stormcloaks left the forest on the mountainside just before dawn. Kaermo had gotten to speak with Lilija again and she urged him not to follow them immediately. “We don’t know how easy this journey will be and we don’t even know if we’ll make it back to Windhelm or if General Tullius will attack us again. But you can be certain that whatever bad things happen during our travels, some of the Stormcloaks will blame you,” she cautioned.

He didn’t think Elenwen would like this turn of events if she knew. But he wasn’t supposed to report back to her yet and he actually thought Lilija had a point. The only Stormcloaks who seemed even a little bit kindly disposed towards him were Lilija and Ralof. And the latter had reported back to Jarl Ulfric to say that he was going to stay in Riverwood for a while in case the dragon returned.

Kaermo joined him when he walked back to the village. Ralof told him about his sister Gerdur, who according to him would help Kaermo if he needed anything. Kaermo doubted the truth of that statement though, especially since the next subject Ralof started on was his cousin being abducted by the Thalmor. It was surprising that even Ralof seemed to like him and _he_ had actually seen him fight with them. A Nord woman who’d never met him before would probably distrust him.

“What is the name of your cousin?” he asked, interrupting Ralof’s chatter.

The Nord glanced at him. “Thorald Gray-Mane. He disappeared over a year ago.”

Kaermo pursed his lips. He recognized the name, but he couldn’t remember why. Maybe one of the Thalmor Justiciars had mentioned him.

“Why did you want to know?”

“I might have left the Aldmeri Dominion but I still have contacts,” he replied. “I’ll see what I can learn about him.”

When he contacted Elenwen next time he would ask about him. If the man isn’t an essential prisoner, it might be a good idea to “rescue” him.

“Any help will be much appreciated,” Ralof proclaimed and clapped him on the shoulder.

Kaermo turn slightly away and crinkled his nose. Humans and their touching.

†††

In Riverwood Kaermo got himself a room at the Sleeping Giant Inn. Residence there was comfortable enough, for a Nord place. But the proprietor, a Breton woman named Delphine, watched him a little too closely for his comfort and he came to the conclusion that he would have to leave soon.

There was something off about her. He had seen the defined muscles on her arms when she had her sleeves rolled up and her stance was more like that of a soldier than a peasant.

In the evening, Ralof as well as Gerdur and her husband Hod shared a few bottles of mead with him at a table in the inn. Ralof seemed to be inclined to get as drunk as he could, chugging bottle after bottle of mead, while Gerdur and Hod were more interested in conversing about the dragon.

“Someone needs to get soldiers from Jarl Balgruuf,” Gerdur muttered. “We cannot defend this village by ourselves and the hold guards are as likely to run as to fight if they see a dragon.”

Kaermo nodded. “I’ll leave at dawn tomorrow if you trust me to deliver the message.”

“Thank you.”

Ralof poked his shoulder, startling him so that he spilled mead over his leather armor. “Thorald lived in Whiterun.”

Gerdur sighed. “I want our cousin back as much as you do, Ralof. But the Battle-Borns refused to tell Fralia anything.”

“I have offered to look around,” Kaermo interjected. “I’m afraid I’ll probably only be of help with elves, though. Fear of our races seems to be widespread in this country and these Battle-Borns are humans, I suppose?”

“They are Nords,” Hod supplied.

“We will be grateful if you find out anything at all about Thorald’s whereabouts. But make sure that the Jarl understands how serious the dragon issue is first. This village is my responsibility and I won’t risk any of their lives for even a cousin of mine.”

Ralof muttered something in return, but he went quiet after a sharp glare from Gerdur.

Kaermo pushed his bottle of mead away, forcing himself not to grimace. How could Nords think that this drink tasted good? When he looked up again he caught Delphine watching them from the other side of the room. Her eyes lingered on his face even as he met her gaze.

†††

Kaermo arrived at the Whiterun Stables during what should have been the morning rush. He saw farmers going out to their fields, but there were no merchants leaving the city and no townsfolk going about their business. He could hear animals neighing, barking and meowing, people speaking in loud tones and their children laughing. The road leading to Whiterun, however, was almost empty.

Peculiar.

The strongest scent he could make out over the stench of the animals was lavender. It smelled like Ondolemar’s room at the Merchants Inn in the Imperial City. He hadn’t missed him the first time they parted their ways, but after they’d met again in Alinor and then in Mournhold, he actually started to see him as something more than an acquaintance. And now that they both worked in Skyrim, he would have to make sure they met up in Markarth after his mission had ended.

Before approaching the city, he hid behind some bushes and changed the Imperial armor he’d stolen from the keep at Helgen to the peasant clothing he’d borrowed from Hod.

Dressed like the farmers around him, Kaermo made his way up to the large gates in the city walls. They were closed and guarded by men in yellow armor with the symbol of a horse’s head on their shields. One of the guards approached him as he got closer to the gates.

“Halt! No one gets into the city with the dragon around!”

Kaermo pursed his lips. “I have news of the dragon attack in Helgen. Gerdur from Riverwood sent me.”

The guard studied him closely. “Gerdur has never sent an elf before.”

“I’ve made it a habit to stay at the inn during my travels. This time Gerdur asked me to bring her message.”

His words didn’t seem to reassure the man, but the other guard stepped in. “Send him to the Jarl. If there’s something fishy about him, then Irileth will stop him.”

“I’ll put this on you if it goes wrong.”

“He’s a puny High-elf farmhand. What do you think he’ll do?”

Kaermo allowed a small frown to settle on his face as though the word ‘puny’ bothered him. Inwardly he smiled. Elenwen had been right to assume that a more slender physique would make him look more innocent and he was glad that he had listened to her advice in preparation for the mission.

The guards finally opened the gates and Kaermo slipped through with a small smile and a ‘thank you’.

†††

Jarl Balgruuf was busy speaking with two men when Kaermo arrived at Dragonsreach. They seemed to disagree about something judging by their harsh voices and sharp gestures. But before Kaermo could get close enough to make out any words a Dunmer approached him with her sword drawn.

She was dressed like a warrior with leather armor and her red hair drawn back from her face. “What is your business here?” she demanded, red eyes watching him suspiciously.

“I’m to inform the Jarl of the dragon. And to ask him to do something for the protection of Riverwood.”

She glared at him but the Jarl called out. “Irileth, let me speak with him!”

“Approach the Jarl, but try anything and I’ll cut your throat!” she threatened but at least she sheathed her sword.

Kaermo felt her eyes on his back as he approached the Jarl’s throne; he knew she was suspicious of him but he respected her for it. She was smarter than the Nords guarding the gates of Whiterun at least. Dunmeri people might be closer to the humans, geographically as well as in relations between their countries, but they were still Mer.

The Jarl stared at him from his throne, his features as distrustful as Irileth’s. The Jarl looked much younger than Ulfric, his chin was bereft of the beard that older Men seemed so fond of and his fair hair had no streaks of grey. “I would welcome you to Dragonsreach, High-elf. But I recognize you and I have to ask what you’re doing here.”

Kaermo furrowed his brow. “I do not think we have met before… Jarl Balgruuf.”

“General Tullius wants your head. His descriptions of you were very thorough,” the Jarl informed. “What I don’t understand is why an Altmer would consort with Stormcloaks.”

Kaermo pondered over what to answer. Maybe telling Balgruuf that he was trying to escape the Thalmor would earn him the Jarl’s sympathies. But the Jarl could just as likely hand him over to the Imperials or the Thalmor. Even Elenwen had not truly known were Jarl Balgruuf’s loyalties lied, though she had her suspicions.

“I will not tell you my reasons, lest they get me worse than killed. If you have orders for my head I’d rather make sure that it is the first thing I lose and not the last one of many. But I came here with a message about a dragon and to ask for more guards to protect Riverwood.”

”The dragon in Helgen?”

“I was there, about to be beheaded, but I escaped in the general panic. After the attack, the dragon flew towards Riverwood. I do not know where it is now, but Gerdur requests better protection in case it does attack the village.”

The Jarl leaned back on his throne, narrowing his eyes. “What say you now, Proventus?”

The bald man standing at the Jarl’s shoulder shook his head. “Tullius will take it as a proclamation of war.”

“Tullius can ask me what I’m doing if he wonders. I will not leave my people unprotected!”

“We do not have the coin!”

A third man, a warrior with the likeness of the Jarl, glared at them both. “How can you make this a matter of coin?”

“Because it’s the truth, Hrongar! With the war going on we lack the resources for something like this.”

“Quiet both of you!” the Jarl snapped. The two men turned to him with mirrored expressions of disgust and frustration. “Irileth, make sure that a couple of more guards patrol Riverwood and the farms outside the city. Proventus, find the necessary coin. And Hrongar, go fetch Farengar. I have a feeling he might be of use with this dragon.”

Kaermo stayed in front of the throne as the others followed the Jarl’s orders, but he itched to move and get out of Dragonsreach. Ending up in a prison or getting beheaded would be bad for the outcome of his mission. Elenwen wouldn’t be pleased.

The throne room was large. It’s long, carved wooden panels and the high roof must have taken years to build, but the architecture, however astounding, was troubling. Running from one end to the other would take enough time to allow the Whiterun guards to shoot after him. Maybe there was an exit closer to where he stood but he didn’t know the design of the place.

“High-elf.”

He turned to the Jarl, steeling himself and preparing to run at any moment. “Yes, Jarl Balgruuf?”

“You have done Whiterun hold a service and I will not repay your kindness with deceit. But if you show yourself here again, I’ll have to arrest you.”

Kaermo stared at the Jarl before remembering his manners and bowing to him. “Thank you.”

Jarl Balgruuf didn’t show any reaction to his words, he only motioned for him to go. Kaermo did as he was told, but slowly as one does while waiting for an attack.

While Thalmor loyalty lay only with their kind, this Jarl had put an outsider over his own superior’s orders. Elenwen would have listened to Kaermo and then cut off his head, Jarl Balgruuf did only the former.

Humans truly had an odd sense of right.

†††

The Wind District of Whiterun was more unpleasant than the name would suggest. A Talos-supporter, Heimskr, stood beside the stairs to Dragonsreach and shouted nonstop. It was illegal as well as annoying and the noise should be disturbing the inhabitants, but instead they stood in front of the man and listened. Some even shouted their approval.

Kaermo watched the spectacle, seeing guards walk past, as if there wasn’t a man breaking the law created after the White-Gold Concordant, and humans bow down at the shrine in front of the large statue. There was a statue of Tiber Septim in Whiterun and no one seemed to care. Where were the Thalmor Justiciars? Where were the scared Imperials who actually acted like puppets to the Dominion?

Why did Elenwen think that this rebellion – this allowance of lawbreakers – would benefit the Dominion?

Kaermo shook his head and left the district. It wasn’t his place to ask for more information about that. But there was something he could question her about.

He found a courier at the town’s inn, the Bannered Mare. For a few Septims the human sold him some writing equipment and took his letter and promised to deliver it to the Thalmor embassy.

_E_

_Information._

_Thorald Gray-Mane?_

_/K_

†††

Kaermo returned to Riverwood as the last rays of sun could be seen over Bleak Falls Barrow. All the townsfolk seemed to have retired for the night as the paths between the small houses were empty except for some cows and hens. Music and laughter could be heard from the Sleeping Giant Inn and the smell of soup slipped through the door as a drunken man stumbled out.

A wind swept through the village, making Kaermo shiver in his thin farmer’s clothing. The sound of flapping of wings followed and then a loud thud. He turned towards the sound and barely caught a glimpse of a scaled tail before fire cascaded over him.

It burned the skin of his arm, turning it black before his eyes, and he screamed as he threw himself backwards and slammed into the wooden wall of the cottage behind him. He cradled his wounded arm to his chest and fumbled after the greatsword he’d taken at Helgen. The sword was very impractical with the use of only one hand, but the Imperials hadn’t exactly given him his daggers back before the beheading so he would have to make do.

The dragon flew up into the air again, judging from the groan of the cottage roof. Kaermo squinted up into the sky but he couldn’t see the creature anywhere. He ran across the street to take cover by the entrance to the inn and maybe he should have realized that the dragon was waiting for him. As soon as he left his hiding place the roar of the dragon followed him.

“Dir fahliil! Yol toor shul!” _Die elf! Fire inferno sun!_

Kaermo almost stopped in his tracks as he realized he could understand what the beast was saying, but as the air around him lit up and heat struck against his back, he managed to keep running. Fire followed him as he ran. He threw himself up on the inn’s porch and rolled behind a barrel, crouching to hide from the flames. But as he did so his bad arm hit the floor and he couldn’t help but let out a groan of pain.

“Hi fen ag!” _You will burn!_

Kaermo rested his head against the barrel and clutched the greatsword in his hand. There was no way he could reach the creature without some magical wards. People had started to come out of their cottages, with bows and swords in their hands, but he would have to risk being seen using magic if he was to be of any use at all.

He climbed to his feet and lifted his wounded hand to perform the spell. Light shone around it, growing in size, and as soon as it covered him completely, he left his hiding place. Flames licked at the ward, but they didn’t slip past it.

“Thuri du hin sil ko Sovngarde!” _My overlord will devour your souls in Sovngarde!_

With his sword in one hand and a greater ward in the other, he moved towards the dragon. It stretched its arms out to claw at him but he ducked, barely avoiding the sharp talons. The townsfolks’ arrows pierced the creature and their swords hacked at it. An arrow flew over Kaermo’s head, hitting the dragon right in the eye. Black goo dripped over its face as it screamed in agony and fought with its arms and tail, trying to hit anything close enough.

Kaermo stepped away from one arm, ducked under the other and lunged with his sword. The blade cut into the dragon where the neck met the head, but the hard scales stopped the greatsword from reaching deep enough to kill it. Kaermo pulled the sword loose and raised it again, slamming it into its head from underneath.

“Dovahkiin?!” the dragon bellowed before it fell to the ground and lay there unmoving. Its body lit up, as though it had been set on fire by some sort of spell, and it quickly burned to bone and ashes. The glimmering, magical fire flew from the dragon, up into the air and over to Kaermo.

He stepped back as the light enveloped him. But it followed as he moved, filling him with a strange energy and swirling around him with the sound of winds.

“It cannot be!” someone gasped.

He looked up, catching the raised eyebrows and gaping faces of the inhabitants of Riverwood as they stared at him.

“Dragonborn!?”

“I wouldn’t have believed it had I not seen it with my own eyes!”

“But why him?”

Kaermo turned to Gerdur who stood with a dagger in her hand and stared just like the others. “What just happened?”

It wasn’t Gerdur who answered in the end, but the proprietor if the Sleeping Giant’s Inn, Delphine. “It seems that you are Dragonborn, High-elf.”

He shook his head, wanting to laugh at the absurd claim or the irony of it, but his hand throbbed with pain and his body ached and he couldn’t muster the energy for it. “I hope someone here can tell me more than that but for now I’d just like to acquire some burn salve and get some rest.”

“Can’t elves just magic wounds away?” he thought he heard someone mutter. He didn’t snap ‘I’m not a healer!’ and he didn’t turn around to glare, even though he would have liked to.

Gerdur tapped his shoulder and handed him a small flask. “I don’t have any salve, but a healing potion should set you right.”

He nodded his thanks and drank it quickly, breathing out when he felt the dull pain recede. As he lifted his arm, the burn marks faded into the skin. It would still scar if he didn’t get his hands on any salve, but he didn’t mind. Something left from this encounter would fit with the other marks scattered across his body.

“Did you speak to the Jarl?” Gerdur questioned.

“Yes. He will add some guards to the patrol.”

“And Thorald?”

Kaermo turned around and shook his head at Ralof. “I’ve not yet gotten words from my contacts. I’m sorry.”

The other townsfolk retreated back to their houses, chattering about the dragon and stealing glances at the large skeleton as they walked. Ralof and Gerdur went to her home after saying goodnight, while Delphine stayed with Kaermo until they were alone.

“We’ve still got room at the inn. You look like you’ll fall over without some rest,” she stated.

“I don’t have any more coin. I’m afraid the Imperials took mine at Darkwater.”

Delphine furrowed her brows. “That is something I don’t understand.”

“Huh?”

“Your allegiance.”

He barked a laugh. “You and everyone else.”

Maybe it was the grim but amused gaze she gave him or his weariness from the fight, but he found her impudence refreshing rather than annoying. It seemed some humans had that interesting, suspicious attitude.

“You can have the room for free. We appreciate those who help us here in Riverwood.”

She didn’t say anything more, but he could hear how her words worked the other way around too. He wondered what she would do if she knew that he was someone most Nords would probably count as their enemy.

†††

Delphine led him to the room he had slept in the night before. She waved away his thanks and promises to pay her back. But she did accept his offer to chop some firewood for her, come morning.

When he was finally alone with the door closed, he sat down and composed a new letter.

_E_

_Information._

_Dragonborn?_

_/K_

As he reached for wax and seal, he heard the voices of Delphine and the barman Orgnar outside. They were discussing the dragon attack, nothing strange about that, but there was _something_ about her. He stared at the paper before adding:

_Delphine?_

He put down the pen just as he heard the sound of footsteps outside his door. With one hand he hid the letter inside his shirt and with the other he threw the quill, ink bottle and wax back into his bag.

When the door opened, he’d lain down on the bed with the book _The Great War_ in his hands. Delphine arched a brow at the sight.

“Does our retelling of the war bother you?”

Kaermo put the book down on the bed beside him. He had never read the entire thing, but he did have some knowledge about the Imperials’ thoughts of the war. “Bother me? I do not like to be reminded of war, but I cannot say that there’s something in especially this book that bothers me.”

“My people and yours have very different opinions about what happened.”

“Sometimes the truth is more complicated than only one side of the story.”

Delphine smiled. “You have an answer for everything, High-elf.”

“Kaermo, please. And I wouldn’t presume that to be the case.”

“Are you still interested in learning about the legend of the Dragonborn, Kaermo?”

That she would be the one to tell him. There was something about it that nagged him. Why not Gerdur or Ralof, with whom he had a closer connection? He didn’t let his suspicions show on his face though, only nodded and said: “If it is true- If I am Dragonborn then I will need to know what it means.”

†††

Delphine shared the Dragonborn prophesy not in the way a storyteller would but in the way of a priestess; with reverence in her voice and fire in her eyes. She talked about the dragon war, the first Dragonborn; Miraak, and finally the Septim dynasty. It was widespread knowledge that the Septim emperors had been Dragonborn, but since dragons hadn’t roamed Tamriel for years and years, most people – Kaermo included, unfortunately – didn’t really know what it meant. Delphine seemed certain that he was to be a dragon slayer, but the connection between understanding Dovahzul, absorbing the souls of dead dragons and being meant to kill all of them was lost to him.

The question that Kaermo really wanted to have answered stayed with him as he laid in his room that night, processing all that had happened, all that he had learned. What would Elenwen do with him if he really was Dragonborn? He had never been anyone of value to her, just another spy. A good one, and one of good descent, but no one special.

When he’d just joined, a few months after his interview with Ondolemar, the Thalmor had taken one of the youngsters he trained with away. He had noticed her, during the hours he spent honing his skills with the dagger, mostly because of the fact that she was a Bosmer. The Thalmor wasn’t only made up of Altmer, but very a few were any other race. Kaermo never spoke with her until the day she was removed from training.

He had a feeling he wouldn’t want to know what being an asset to the Thalmor was like.

After only a few seconds of indecision, he brought out the letter from under his shirt and turned it around in his hands. Delphine had been very knowledgeable about the Dragonborn and he doubted Elenwen knew something that the strange Breton woman didn’t. If he could keep the knowledge about him possibly being Dragonborn contained, then nothing would have to change.

Summoning his magic for a short Flames-spell, he turned the letter into ash in his hands. Maybe she would learn about it anyways, but he could at least save some time this way.

†††

Kaermo woke at the brink of dawn. He packed the few belongings that he had acquired in Riverwood – a healing potion and the Imperial gear – in a bundle of cloth and ate some food that Delphine offered him.

“You should exchange your sword for something lighter at Alvor’s,” Delphine told him with a nod towards his greatsword. “I saw how you fought during the dragon’s attack.”

Kaermo tilted his head. “And you are positive that he will be willing to trade with me?”

“Everyone in Riverwood would help you if you asked them,” she smiled. “You joined the fight with them even though you didn’t have to.”

After finishing his breakfast and chopping some firewood for Delphine, Kaermo did as she had suggested and went by Alvor’s forge.

The Nord was hammering on a piece of steel as Kaermo approached him. He had his back to him but something must have alerted him of his presence as he spoke without turning around. “You lookin’ for a new blade?”

Kaermo handed him the sword and the armor. Alvor grunted as his hands flew over the leather and the steel, testing their strengths and no doubt, looking for weaknesses. They struck a deal when the man had finally ascertained that the items were in a good enough condition. Greatsword and Imperial armor for a few daggers and a more inconspicuous studded armor. He needed to enter Stormcloak territory soon, after all.

If he was Dragonborn or not didn’t matter as long as Elenwen hadn’t learned about it. What did matter was his mission. He would have to leave for Windhelm and get back to Ulfric as soon as possible. There was no reason to stay in Riverwood now that he was properly dressed and equipped.

He went back to the Sleeping Giant Inn intending to speak with Delphine on last time. Knowing all that she did about the Dragonborn might be of use to him, it might even be necessary. But he couldn’t afford to stay away from the mission any longer. Elenwen would notice and she wouldn’t stop to ask why, if she thought he had failed her.

Delphine sighed when he stated his intent. But she didn’t ask or try to persuade him to stay, she only went to her room and came back out with a book in her hands. “Take this, read it. And when you decide that this is what you need to be doing, then you know where to find me.”

She handed him _The Book of the Dragonborn_ and he couldn’t help but smile. “Will you tell me why this is so important to you? Or is it another mystery, I’ll have to solve.”

“You are one to talk.”

“Don’t turn this on me!”

“The day you tell me why you’re in Skyrim is the day I tell you why I care more about the dragon attacks than the civil war.”

“It’s a deal.”

Delphine shook her head at him, but he thought he saw the flash of her smile.

†††

Travelling to Windhelm took longer than Kaermo had expected. The road past Whiterun was swarming with hold guards so he constantly had to hide in the vegetation and wait for them to leave. He heard them talking about the dragons, wondering what it meant and if the Dragonborn of legends would appear to save them. Some of them even seemed to think they were the Dragonborn.

Kaermo didn’t really believe in the legend himself, but some parts of it had to be true, since he had in fact absorbed some sort of energy from the dragon’s carcass. Whether it was its soul or not was another matter.

If he’d still had the coin he’d gotten from Elenwen at the start of this mission, he would have been able to go by carriage to Windhelm, a trip that would have been much faster and more comfortable than having to walk the whole way. Better yet would be to have a steed of his own, but obviously that was out of the question. Horses were much more expensive than one place on a carriage.

†††

After three days on the road – living off stale bread that he got from farmers in change of a few hours of labor and sleeping under the canopies of the forest – Kaermo arrived in Windhelm.

“You lost, elf?” the Stormcloak guarding the city gates greeted him.

Kaermo frowned at her. “What in Tamriel makes you say that?”

“There is no reason for another elf to come here. We have enough of you already.”

“Am I not allowed in the city?”

“Oh, you can come inside. You might just not like it very much, living in the Grey quarter.”

“I’ll make my mind up about that myself.”

The Stormcloak did a mock salute and stepped aside opening up the gates for him. “Be on your way then, elf.”

“Thank you, human.”

Kaermo smiled at her glare, before entering Windhelm. At least he got to tease some Nords.

The city that lay behind the walls was covered in thick snow. Men and women were covered in hide capes, woolen tunics and mittens to protect themselves from the cold and Kaermo envied them, dressed as he was in only studded armor.

There was a large building with the sign: Candlehearth Hall, just inside the gates and towering over it, over the whole town actually, was a castle. Kaermo had heard about the old Palace of Ysgramor, now the Palace of the Kings, but he hadn’t expected it to be so impressive. Like the rest of the old Windhelm, now mostly destroyed, the palace was built by elven prisoners. That should vex the citizens, knowing that their priced palace was made by elven hands, or maybe they looked as kindly upon slavery as their neighbors; the Dunmer, did.

Kaermo made his way to the castle entrance as quickly as possible. There was no reason to stall his mission for any longer. He walked through, what seemed to be, the market quarter; with stalls and merchants, a graveyard; empty but for a priestess of Akatosh, and the upper quarter; judging by the size and style of the mansions.

The Stormcloaks guarding the castle doors stared at him distrustfully but let him pass without a comment. As he stepped into the hall someone swerved into him in a flurry of armor and blonde hair. The impact sent him into the door with his attacker stumbling back in shock.

“Kaermo?”

He looked up and smiled at the sight of Ralof’s disheveled appearance, choosing to ignore the fact that the man had accidentally shoved him. “You made it here before me!”

“Sure did. What took you so long?”

Kaermo shrugged and was about to say something about having to hide along the road, but a familiar booming voice made him shut up and look over Ralof’s shoulder.

On a throne at the end of the room sat Ulfric Stormcloak with his gaze fixed at Kaermo. “So the Elf found his way back.”

Kaermo stepped around Ralof and approached the throne. As he got closer, he realized the smile was still on his face. It probably was his chance to rile some Nords, and especially one of their leaders, that he found so amusing. But it was still a bit discomfiting to find himself this comfortable in the company of Men.

“Jarl Ulfric,” he said, bowing his head in a deep nod and grimacing inside at the show of submission.

The Jarl grunted and waved a hand at him, probably wanting him to stop with the courtesies. “Are you here to join then?”

Kaermo nodded. “There is a test for this sort of thing, I heard.”

“A test and an oath, if you’re not a milkdrinker like the rest of your kind then you’ll finish the first without problems.”

If he’d not been on a mission, Kaermo would have laughed in the Jarl’s face. The Nord insult was ridiculous, especially considering the fact that, out of all of Tamriel’s races, the Nords were probably the ones who drank the most milk.

“But you think an oath will be too much for me?”

Jarl Ulfric raised an eyebrow. “You would swear to lay down your life for Skyrim? The oath goes beyond any personal struggle you have with the Thalmor, beyond protection or revenge, or whatever you are here looking for. It is our first show of loyalty to the cause and it’s a lifelong commitment.”

“Tell me how what to do for this quest and allow me to surprise you.”

They stared at each other for a few seconds before Ulfric motioned for a man who stood beside the throne to come forward. “Equip him, Galmar.”

†††

The test turned out to bring him to a place even colder and further north than Windhelm, as he was supposed to kill an Ice Wraith. Galmar had told him goodbye, leering, before he left the Palace of the Kings. “This might be the last time I see you, goldenrod.”

Kaermo had only shook his head and put on a smile. “You’ll see.”

He reached the shore across from Serpentstone Isle a couple of hours before sundown. Strong winds swept over the plains and hillsides behind him, dragging thick layers of snow with them to dance in circles around him. Over the whistling wind, he could hear the spitting and hissing of the Wraith on the island.

To reach it, he would have to go into the water.

He didn’t fear the creature; he had killed worse beasts many times over the decades. The water and the cold, on the other hand; they could very well kill him. He could protect himself with the Elixir of Resist Cold that he’d gotten from Galmar, but, like most potions, it wasn’t potent enough for the whole quest. It would save him from freezing to death alone out here, though it wouldn’t last the hours-long journey back to Windhelm. He would need to use his magic to keep himself alive.

Hopefully, none of the Nords would see him do it.

He uncorked the bottle and drank the elixir quickly. It sent sparkles of warmth through his limbs before he’d finished the last drop. The Stormcloaks must have a talented alchemist in their service, or enough coin to buy a lot of high-class goods, if they gave even new recruits such efficient potions.

After taking a few deep breaths, he got into the water and immediately had to stop himself from shouting. There was cold and then there was _freezing_.

“By Oblivion!” he gasped, walking further into the sea until the water reached his waist and he could swim instead.

If he got out of this alive, then he would never disregard the toughness of Nords again. They were strong people, living harsh lives in an unfriendly land.

He swam across to Serpentstone Isle as quickly as he could, but of course his clothes were completely drenched by the time he got to the shore anyways. The cold winds went right through him now, making his teeth clatter. There was no time to waste, if he was to finish this and get back before freezing to death.

Steeling himself, he summoned his flames and made his way towards the stone circle in the middle of the island. The sly and snakelike movements of the Ice Wraith could be seen through the snowy winds. It seemed like it knew he was there and wanted to draw him in.

The moment it got close enough to hit, he sent fire after it. The air crackled as the flames melted the ice from its body. It flew at him with a ray of frost coming from its open mouth. Kaermo hissed as it pierced his arm and turned around as it tried to avoid his flames by swirling around him. He kept his Destruction magic flowing until every icy part of its body had melted and everything that was left was a pile of ashes on the ground. Pocketing its essence as proof of his kill, he stumbled to his feet and made his way down to the shore again.

His arm felt frozen solid and the rest of him wasn’t much better. The clothes covering his upper body had dried a bit from the flames but the rest of him was still dripping. He was shivering already and he hadn’t even gotten back into the water yet.

This would be very unpleasant.

He walked into the sea again and swam back to the mainland. As he got out of the water for the second time that evening, he started shaking even worse than before. His wounded arm throbbed but he raised it anyway, gritting his teeth, to once again summon his flames. They flickered a bit as he had used almost all his energy and magicka. A groan escaped his mouth when he felt the heat from the flames and he made sure to keep the fire as close to himself as he could without hurting himself.

Now he only had to make his way back to Windhelm and show these Nords that he wasn’t some “milkdrinker” or whatever it was they were so fond of calling him.

†††

The Palace of the Kings was cloaked in darkness when Kaermo got back. The guards in front of the gates cast large shadows on the walls whenever they moved past the fires. One of them seemed surprised to see Kaermo but the other one must have recognized him as he only yawned and waved a hand for him to pass.

Inside the castle, men and women in Stormcloak armor were seated at the long table. Servants came and went with dishes and drinks for the soldiers. In one of the corners, a bard stood, playing the harp, though he could barely be heard over the sounds coming from the Stormcloaks. They shouted for more ale and sang their own versions of the bard’s songs, all while trying to converse with each other.

Kaermo strode past them and stopped in front of the throne. He reached for the pouch with the Ice Wraith-essence, to show Ulfric that he had succeeded, but before handing it over, he looked up and caught Jarl Ulfric smiling at him. Kaermo blinked and froze mid-action. Was there something wrong? Had he been found out?

“M-my Jarl?” he exclaimed.

“Have you slayed the wraith?”

He nodded and handed him the pouch. As Ulfric took it from him, their hands touched and Kaermo shivered. The injury caused by the beast was turning his whole arm cold and in contrast, Ulfric’s warmth was palpable.

“You’re wounded,” Ulfric frowned and turned Kaermo’s hand around as though he wanted to see it.

Kaermo stared at him in silence, until Ulfric raised his eyebrows and motioned for him to speak.

“Barely a scratch,” Kaermo said and pulled his hand from Jarl Ulfric’s grip. “I have passed your test. Am I allowed to join your Stormcloaks now?”

“Are you ready to swear the oath?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Then repeat after me: _I do swear my blood and honor to the service of Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm and true High King of Skyrim_. _As Talos is my witness, may this oath bind me to death and beyond… even to my lord as to my fellow brothers and sisters in arms. All hail the Stormcloaks, the true sons and daughters of Skyrim!_ ”

This wasn’t the first time Kaermo had sworn an oath that he had no intention of keeping. The words still left a sour taste in his mouth, but he was an oath-breaker and a liar by trade and the Stormcloaks had themselves to blame if they thought killing a Wraith and saying a few sentences showed loyalty.

Elenwen and the Thalmor needed him to do this, he realized. What strengthened his resolve was the inclusion of “Talos” in the oath. The false man-god of the Nords was an abomination and an act against the other gods. A mortal man could not be raised to the likes of Auri-El and Talos-worship was forbidden in accordance with the White-Gold Concordant. Skyrim was the one region of Tamriel most in need of Thalmor influence and Kaermo was only doing what had to be done.

“You are now one of us, Kaermo,” Jarl Ulric said, smiling again. “Galmar will equip you and Wuunferth the Unliving will heal your wounds. Welcome to the ranks of the Stormcloaks!”

Kaermo bowed and made himself smile back at the Jarl. This was the first step.

†††

After joining the Stormcloak feast for a few hours into the night, Kaermo made his way to Candlehearth Hall. His steps were heavy and he couldn’t help but yawn every now and then, but his heart was light. It seemed even the Nords could let a stranger into their midst if one was patient enough. This mission might not be as difficult as he’d thought it would and it would be a relief if he could get out of this dreary place sooner rather than later. He still felt unsure of what would happen to him when he was done here. Elenwen’s evasive behavior in the wagon certainly was worrying.

He might be executed if he was discovered and he might be rewarded if he succeeded. But if Altmer nobles found out about what he had done in Skyrim – and if they did not know it was all a ruse – they might sentence him to death or reeducation, even if he had succeeded his mission. He was not sure that Elenwen would step in and help him in that case. What was the worth of one spy after all? She wouldn’t do anything for him that might be harmful to her position in the Dominion.

Shaking his head to rid himself of his doubts – they hardly mattered at the time, after all – he opened the doors to the Inn and stepped inside. The warmth from the hearths chased away the cold that had surrounded him the whole evening.

Except for when he touched Ulfric’s hand.

He turned his own hand over, staring at it. The Jarl was very peculiar. Maybe he had learned something and was playing Kaermo right back. He would need to be on his guard in the future and make sure not relax in the Jarl’s presence.

“Kaermo?”

He looked up. A courier boy stood in front of him with a letter in his hand.

“This is for you. A little girl in Riften gave it to me.”

Kaermo handed him a few Septims and went to the proprietor to rent a room. He was eager to open the letter as it was probably from Elenwen. But the woman behind the disk took her sweet time to show him to his room and he glared at her back as she slowly moved down the corridor.

The room he was shown to was quaint enough for an Inn. Wooden furniture were placed against the walls and a thick quilt lay on the bed. He barely glanced around before shutting the door and looking at the letter.

_K_

_You can have him if you want. Someone will meet you._

_/E_

Kaermo smiled. Thorald Gray-Mane would soon be taken care of, it seemed.

Step two had begun.


	3. The Age of Aggression

After a few weeks as a Stormcloak, Kaermo was getting used to the routines. He was sent on short, easy missions together with a few others. Sometimes he scouted areas close to Imperial territory and other times he was a part of small skirmishes against Imperials who got too close to Windhelm.

He never saw much of Ulfric, but he figured it would probably be good to prove his worth before making any moves to get closer to the Jarl.

Different officers gave Kaermo orders every time, but Galmar Stone-Fist instructed him a few times before his missions. He would usually glare at Kaermo and explain everything for him so thoroughly that it was obvious he thought Kaermo knew nothing useful at all.

Kaermo figured the best way to prove the man wrong (and make him irritated) would be to finish all that he was sent to do quicker, better and cleaner than the other soldiers. His superior stamina as a Mer and the use of magic (when the Nords weren’t looking) proved very useful for this purpose. The look on Galmar’s face after he had gotten rid of a couple of Imperial soldiers, in half the time that he had estimated, was a sight indeed.

No matter how quick and efficient he was though, Jarl Ulfric never spoke to him. Maybe Kaermo had gotten used to the special treatment he got when the Nords were highly suspicious of him, because their behavior now confounded him. He was treated like any other lowly Stormcloak soldier (except maybe a little more coldly).

It was a bit tedious to bide his time. He was waiting both for an opportunity to rise amongst the ranks of the Stormcloaks and for the agent Elenwen had sent about Thorald. His favorite pastime in Windhelm were the missions he got to do with Lilija. Unlike the other Stormcloaks, who avoided Kaermo if they could, she sought him out and talked to him. Ralof also treated him kindly, but Lilija was a more interesting person.

“What did you do to Galmar?” she asked him one evening when they sat together in a corner of the Candlehearth Hall.

Kaermo raised an eyebrow. “Nothing. He dislikes us Altmer I suppose.”

“Really now? I wouldn’t have guessed.”

Lilija grinned at the exasperated look he gave her.

“Does he treat anyone else like this?”

“We’ve never had an Altmer in the Stormcloaks before. But he’s not very fond of the Dunmer in the Grey Quarter either.”

“Is Jarl Ulfric as… disapproving of Mer people?”

“He might be. He hasn’t done anything about the Grey Quarter and he hates the Thalmor with a passion. But he doesn’t show it as openly, even if he feels like Galmar.”

“He smiled at me when I joined.”

Lilija raised her eyebrows. “Well, he wouldn’t have let you join if he didn’t want you to be a Stormcloak so he was probably happy that you succeeded the test.”

“Hm.”

“Maybe you’ll show him that being Mer or human or beast doesn’t matter. We’re all peoples of Tamriel.”

Kaermo shrugged. She thought he was openminded. She thought he would be a good influence for the closeminded Nords. He had just been quiet about his opinions, no lies, no deceit. But for some reason, she presumed he was like her; someone who didn’t care about race.

It was dangerous to talk to her. He wanted to speak honestly and hear her opinions. Something about her kind and strong way had made him see her as a friend. But he couldn’t afford to be friends with the enemy. She didn’t know anything about him and she would hate him if she did know.

“Kaermo?”

He looked up.

“You needn’t worry about the racists. Ulfric won’t let them do anything to you. And Ralof and I will do what we can to protect you too.”

While Kaermo doubted Ulfric would want to stop anyone from harassing him, even less one of the Stormcloaks, he still felt inclined to trust Lilja’s judgement. She was more insightful than most humans after all.

†††

One day, he was sent together with Lilija and a few other Stormcloaks to Mount Anthor. There had been some complaints about a dragon roaming the area and Ulfric wanted them to deal with it. Kaermo had tried to get out of the mission by pretending to feel ill, but to no avail. Ulfric wanted him out there.

Kaermo was vary of killing a dragon, considering what happened last time. Delphine had called him dragonborn and while he might not believe that yet, he was aware that some kind of mystical energy transference had occurred. The Stormcloaks might also think that he was the dragonborn of legend if it happened again and they would spread the word.

It was already dangerous enough that the whole village of Riverwood knew…

Maybe if he was far away from the corpse. Or maybe he should kill the dragon when no one could see him.

His area of expertise was destruction magic, and a bit of conjuration. He had been trained in the illusion that was needed to turn invisible, of course. It was necessary for every spy. But his spell didn’t last very long; what if it wasn’t enough and someone saw him? It was too big of a risk.

As they got closer and closer to Mount Anthor, Kaermo could feel his calm demeanor slipping away from him. His fingers shook slightly as they grasped his swords and he could only hope that no one noticed. Maybe this would be the moment he revealed himself. Maybe Elenwen would find out what he had tried to keep hidden.

He caught Lilija stealing glances at him and forced himself to relax as best as he could. She gave him an encouraging smile.

“You can take cover while fighting a dragon. Hide and use your bow if this fight is too much.”

Kaermo glared at her. “I’m not afraid of a dragon. It will die by my swords, same as any creature that stands in my way.”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “Oh, did that wound your ego?”

He huffed. “Stop please.”

“You needn’t be afraid, Kaermo. I’ll protect you!”

They shared a quick glance before chuckling. As they ran on in silence, Kaermo realized that his hands were no longer shaking. Lilija had managed to calm him down without him noticing what she was doing.

Before Kaermo could ponder this realization further, a roar came from above. “Dir muz! Ag ko yoli!” _Die men! Burn in my fire!_

Delphine had explained to him that a dragonborn could understand dragon tongue, but it still confused him to be effortlessly translating the words in his head.

All of the Stormcloaks scattered over the mountainside as the dragon breathed fire over them. Kaermo and Lilja threw themselves under a cropped out cliff, barely out of reach from the flames.

When he dared to sneak out from under the rock, Kaermo could see the dragon far, far up in the air. Kaermo pulled out his bow thoughtfully. Maybe Lilija had been right in her teasing. Because unlike the one in Riverwood, this dragon didn’t seem content to sit on the ground. He nocked an arrow, turned to the skies and breathed out slowly as he let it go. The dragon roared and took a sharp turn to suddenly fly towards him. Kaermo threw himself to the side, ducking under the rock canopy.

A loud thud shook the ground. Kaermo swallowed hard as he saw the large, scaly creature crawling towards his hideout. He shot arrow after arrow until the dragon was close enough that his bow was useless. Gripping his knives, he rolled out from under the rock to slice at its throat.

“Dovahkiin!” it bellowed and Kaermo wanted to cry. Trust a dragon to reveal his secret.

Its scales started shimmering as flame built up in its belly. Kaermo grit his teeth, sprinting out of its reach to throw himself behind another rock construction. He didn’t make it this time. Flames scalded the stone, turning it black and making the tips of Kaermo’s hair singed. The heat was unbearable, and he couldn’t help but yelp in pain as it scorched his upper body. Where were the other damn Stormcloaks when he needed them?

Finally, the dragon ran out of fire and instead crawled towards him again. He tried lifting his arms to a defensive stance with his knives, but crumpled to the ground as pain shot through him. “Lilija!” he shouted. “I’m down.”

The dragon lifted its arm and slashed at him. Its claws tore through his armor, scraping his already burned front and making him scream. It opened its large mouth, probably going to take a bite of him, but a Stormcloak hit its shoulder with a battleaxe and it turned its attention to him instead.

Kaermo dragged himself to his knees. His whole body was shaking but he pushed through the pain to grab one of his knives. Breathing slowly and focusing on the dragon’s movement, he threw it into its jaw. Dark blood spurted from the wound as the dragon roared and snapped its head back to Kaermo.

“DIR!” _DIE!_

It moved closer, lifting an arm but a third Stormcloak joined them, cutting its head off with a greatsword. The dragon crumpled to the ground and a golden wind began swirling around it. Kaermo stared in horror as the same thing as in Riverwood started happening. He raised his hands and quickly turned himself invisible, before crawling away. When the energy transfer had stopped and he’d gotten away far enough that no Stormcloaks looked in his direction, he let the spell go and allowed himself to fall to the ground.

“Kaermo?!”

He saw Lilija run towards him, restoration magic shining brightly between her hands. She kneeled next to him and a welcomed golden shine moved between them. The pain slowly started leaving his body and he could feel his wounds close themselves as she healed him. He put up a hand when the swimming pain no longer made his head dizzy.

“You need to reserve your magicka.”

She pursed her lips together but lowered her hands anyway. “Can you move?”

He pushed himself to his knees, groaning softly, but batted her hands away when she tried to help him to his feet. In one, graceful, move he got up, smirking at her exasperated sigh. The other Stormcloaks gathered around them looking equally satisfied. Some of them had wounds that garnered Lilija’s attention and she immediately started moving between them.

“Did anyone see that golden spiral?” one of the Stormcloaks said, waving her hand in the direction of the corpse.

“Huh?”

“When it died something strange happened.”

“How would you know? Have you ever killed a dragon before?”

She shrugged.

The Stormcloaks picked up any dropped items and then started moving towards Windhelm again. Some of them were already laughing and calling themselves “dragon slayers” while others looked dead on their feet. But it seemed like the subject of the golden light would be dropped and Kaermo could breathe out in relief.

Now he had a strategy if he ever encountered a dragon in company of others again.

†††

When they got back to the Palace of the Kings, the throne room was completely devoid of people. Voices could be heard from the war room though; Ulfric and Galmar’s mostly.

Kaermo heard what they were saying but he didn’t understand. They were speaking of some sort of crown?

“The _Jagged_ crown,” Lilija told him when she saw his frown. “According to legend, the High King of Skyrim used to wear it. Jarl Ulfric probably feels like his claim to the throne is even bigger if he has it.”

Kaermo nodded slowly. It made sense in a way. If Ulfric had both killed former High King Torygg and got his hands on the crown, then the Empire would be the only thing standing in the way of his kingdom. Since the Nords seemed so driven by tradition, it seemed rather likely that they would support Ulfric if he had their famous crown. Which meant that he should send word to Elenwen immediately and make sure that she knew what the Stormcloaks were up to.

After they’d reported their mission back to Galmar and Lilija had given him a healing potion for his injuries, he hid in a corner of the Palace and penned a short coded note for Elenwen. When he’d made sure that his duties for the day were over, he walked to Candlehearth Hall and had a few drinks before handing over the letter to a courier residing at the inn. He stayed out on the upper floor afterwards; flirting with the Dunmeri bard and looking over his shoulder to make sure that no one was suspicious of him.

“Kaermo?”

He turned to the serving woman, Susanna the Wicked, and smiled. “Yes?”

“I think someone’s interested in talking to you,” she said, winking, and pointed to the corner of the room.

A man sitting cross-legged in an armchair, watched him with a smile playing on his lips. As their gazes met, the man motioned with a finger for him to come over.

“I think someone wants to do more than talk,” the bard, Luaffyn, chuckled.

Kaermo let a blush onto his cheeks and lowered his gaze as he moved over the floor. His missions often had him flirting with people, but they usually weren’t as gorgeous as this one.

The man had high cheekbones, almost like an Altmer, and his dark eyes were watching Kaermo’s movement like a hawk. He was dressed like a merchant, probably a traveler from Hammerfell or High Rock. As Kaermo sat down beside him, the man reached over to take his hand and press a lingering kiss to his cheek.

“Thorald,” he whispered against his skin.

Kaermo answered by raising his hand to the strangers jaw and tugging him closer till their lips met. “I have a room downstairs.”

The man opened Kaermo’s mouth with his tongue, making him gasp. Pushing any unease to the back of his mind, Kaermo leaned in closer and sighed into the kiss. He had long since gotten used to sleeping Men and while he knew most Altmers would be disgusted with him, he had found a way to separate work from pleasure in his head. Work meant sleeping with people who were not Mer and that was fine as long as it was just sex.

A hand moved up his thigh and Kaermo let out a breathy moan. The man nipped at his ear, pressing kisses along his jaw. It was good to actually have a partner who knew what he was doing. Too many times, Kaermo had had to moan while with men and women who were anything but good.

“Let’s move to your room,” the man said into his ear in a deep voice.

Kaermo gripped his hand and tugged him with him down the stairs. They made out against the wall for a few minutes before actually opening the door and slipping inside.

“You need to rescue him.”

Kaermo stared at him while processing. The Thalmor really had Thorald Gray-Mane then, but they didn’t need him that badly. “Where and when?”

“I have a transport waiting for us. Can you leave?”

“Can it wait till my next Stormcloak mission?”

The stranger narrowed his eyes. “I have other things to do than to wait around for you.”

“Alright,” Kaermo pursed his lips. Maybe Ralof could get him out of his duties for a few days, if he knew it was for his cousin. “There’s someone who might help me. I will speak with him tomorrow.”

This got him a nod. They both knew they couldn’t leave the room now without raising suspicion so it had to wait for now.

“Do you have any information that I need for this?”

“We’re going to be travelling for a while together,” the man said dismissively before smirking and letting his eyes move over Kaermo’s body. “And besides, we have to keep appearances up for now.”

The man wanted to fuck him then. Since it was for the mission, Kaermo wanted that too. Their cover would be more natural if they didn’t pretend.

Kaermo ran a hand over the man’s arm and tugged him towards the bed. “What do I call you?”

“Ahtar.”

†††

After travelling together for a day, he learned that Ahtar usually worked as a headsman in Solitude.

“You like killing people?”

Ahtar levelled him with a stare, before turning back to keep his eyes on the road, clutching the reins. Pretending to be on a merchant’s trip had its perks. Ahtar could travel across Skyrim and beyond while hiding both passengers and goods. The carriage was simple; a wooden dull brown, and it needed only one horse, but it was still much more comfortable than most of Kaermo’s own travels.

“Are you trying to have some sort of philosophical discussion with me?”

“We're going to be on the road for another three days, you said.”

“You easily bored then?”

Kaermo grunted. “I could be silent this whole trip without complaint. But this is the first time I’ve had the chance to be anything for over a month.”

“Isn’t that supposed to be normal for you?”

“My missions are usually short. In and out. This drawn out process is not my specialty.”

Ahtar hummed. “There isn’t much work for a headsman. I help the guards with drunkards and pickpockets more often than I participate in executions.”

“How long have you been an agent?”

“You’re asking that?”

Kaermo couldn’t help but roll his eyes. Some agents, mostly newer ones, thought they had to keep quiet about everything. But Kaermo had found that knowing exactly what could be said to whom was more helpful than staying silent all the time. If everything was kept too close then something was bound to slip out sooner or later.

“The Thalmor trusted you with my identity. I would be tortured and killed faster than you could say my name, if you revealed me to the Stormcloaks.”

They both stayed silent for a while, as Ahtar probably pondered his words. Kaermo could be the first person who had tried to get some honesty out of the man and it was surely both confusing and intimidating.

“You’ve fucked me and could have me killed, I don’t know how much closer we could get,” Kaermo said, grinning when Ahtar turned to look at him.

“Aish. You’re really something, huh?”

“Just stating the facts.”

They both chuckled and Kaermo kept smiling as he saw how the tense line of Ahtar’s shoulder relaxed slightly.

“They recruited me a few years ago.”

He was a beginner then. “Cute.”

Ahtar smacked him on the arm. “You’re the one who looks like a youngling.”

“I’ve been doing this for almost two hundred years, have some respect.”

“By Tava, you’re that old?”

“Yes, I-“ The carriage bumped against something and Kaermo grabbed Ahtar to keep from falling off. “How in Tamriel do you stay on this thing?”

“You’re light like a feather, of course you’re going to fly off.”

Kaermo grumbled to himself. Around them, the thick firs and pines of the mountain sides had given away for open fields and a few birch trees, which unfortunately also meant that the gravel roads had turned into dirt ones. The carriage wheels kept sinking into the soft terrain before getting pulled up again sharply and Kaermo was starting to reconsider his thoughts about comfortable travel. This was surely worse than being on horseback for twelve hours, or at least almost as bad.

His hand kept gripping Ahtar’s arm for safety. He usually wasn’t this touchy with strangers but he did not want to fall off; especially not when his body was still aching from his dragon fire burns.

“Haven’t you been on a carriage before?”

“This is not what it’s supposed to be like. I’ve never been afraid of falling off before.”

“Welcome to the roads of Skyrim.”

†††

They made camp in a small grove, the first night. Kaermo slept hidden inside the carriage and Ahtar just outside in a small tent. The man had looked longingly at him when he’d disappeared into the wagon, but Kaermo had pretended that he hadn’t seen it. Men didn’t seem like they cared about propriety as much; or at least not this man. If they laid with each other again, then it wouldn’t be for the mission so it was not going to happen. Kaermo couldn’t even think of the rush he’d felt catching Ahtar watching him. He wouldn’t be disgusting.

†††

They arrived at Northwatch keep as dawn broke the fourth day. A light snowfall kept covering the stone walls and making them glitter in the sunrise. What was probably usually an intimidating place, looked quite pretty at this hour. Its beauty might also have something to do with the fact that Kaermo was very happy that he never had to go on the carriage again.

As he went to step off the carriage one last time, he almost fell and had to grip the wooden stair to keep from crumpling into a heap in the snow.

“This was worse than being on a ship on the Topal Sea in full storm,” he muttered under his breath.

Ahtar, having walked around the carriage with no problem, chuckled and gripped his arm to keep him steady. “Another difficult adventure of yours?”

“It was nowhere near this.”

A Thalmor soldier, coming out of the keep, walked over to them. “Welcome. The Emissary has been expecting you.”

His voice had the soft tilt that was common amongst Alinor’s nobility and judging by his manner of speech, he was probably higher born than Kaermo.

“Of course,” Kaermo said with a bow, before turning to Ahtar. “It was-“

“You can’t say ‘a pleasure’. I won’t believe you.”

“You were good company on a horrible trip.”

Ahtar raised an eyebrow. “Come visit me in Solitude some time, if you miss me.”

“Tullius wants my head, I’m afraid. But I could find another way.”

They shook hands and Ahtar got up on his carriage again. Kaermo quickly tore his eyes away when the soldier beside him cleared his throat.

“Shall we?”

†††

The soldier brought him to a small office, hidden within the stone walls. A large red armchair had been placed in the middle of the room and Elenwen was seated there like a regent. Kaermo stepped into the room and bowed before approaching. There was nowhere else to sit so he stopped in front of her and bowed again, lower this time.

“You’re making progress, I hope.”

Kaermo nodded. Elenwen’s eyes tracked his movements and there was a slight curve to her lips. Maybe she didn’t believe him.

“They are a suspicious people.”

“You broke into the Hlaalu Council Manor in three weeks.”

“Have I misjudged the mission, Madame?”

She tapped a finger against her jaw. “You tell me.”

“I’m trying to get Ulfric’s trust and I don’t want to act to quickly. The Hlaalu mission ended when I’d gotten in, but this time I will have to stay close to him after that. Or at least that’s what I thought.”

“Will he trust you? Do you know what we want you to do with that trust?”

Kaermo stayed silent. He caught a glint of something in Elenwen’s eyes as she watched him back.

“You will help or undermine him, depending on how the war fares. If he dies, you will make sure that his successor continues to go against the empire.”

She waved a hand and a justiciar appeared in the doorway. “Madame?”

“Are the corpses ready, Sanyon?”

“Yes, everything has been set up.”

Kaermo looked between them. “Does he seem like he would fall for it?”

“He’s delirious with pain. He won’t stop to think.”

Elenwen and Sanyon kept conversing amongst themselves as a soldier stepped into the room and walked up to Kaermo. He was holding a small sword and a bucket that smelled suspiciously like blood.

Kaermo breathed out slowly and steeled himself. They wanted him to look like he had fought his way in, of course.

The soldier put the bucket down and handed him a wooden stick. “Act like you’re defending yourself,” was the only warning he got before he was attacked.

He brought the stick up as the soldier slashed at him, but it wasn’t much for protection and soon enough his Stormcloak armor was littered with cuts. He could feel small trickles of blood down his arms and chest and he bit his lip to keep from crying out. The wounds he got from pretending to fight would this way be placed like wounds from a real scuffle. When his appearance was finally deemed satisfactory, the soldier stepped back and handed him the sword.

“Cover it,” the soldier said and pointed to the bucket.

Kaermo scowled at the informal way he addressed him, but knelt to do as he was ordered without saying anything. Elenwen wouldn’t care for any power struggles when they had better things to do.

†††

Half an hour later, Kaermo stepped into the torture chamber clutching a blade dripping with blood. His face and body were bruised and his hair matted with blood and dirt.

On the other end of the room, a gray haired man was slumped against the wall with his hands in chains. If Kaermo looked bad, the man was ten times worse.

“Thorald?” Kaermo called and approached him slowly.

The man raised his head and stared at him. “You the new torturer, boy?”

“Ralof sent me.”

He only got a scoff for answer but that was to be expected. The Thalmor might have tried to play mind games with him while he was here and he had no reason to trust Kaermo yet.

When he was almost close enough to touch, Kaermo put down his sword on the floor and raised his hands in a placating gesture. “I will release you from your bindings now. Please abstain from hurting me.”

Thorald frowned but didn’t move as Kaermo got closer and unlocked his handcuffs. His legs shook as he tried to support himself and he leaned against the wall to keep from falling.

Kaermo held out a hand. “I know a way out.”

“Of course you do.”

“My name is Kaermo and I’m a Stormcloak. Gerdur and Ralof trust me. I know it must be hard for you to do the same but I’m your only chance to get out of here before they call in reinforcements.”

Thorald stared at him for a few seconds before taking his hand. “Fine, goldenrod. But only if you give me your sword.”

Kaermo hesitated. Even someone as weak as Thorald right now could do a lot of damage against an unarmed person. He didn’t trust this Nord not to try to kill him the moment they were outside the keep. But they needed to get out of here before Thorald became suspicious about the absence of the guards. And if it went bad, Kaermo had his hidden knives and his magic to protect himself after all.

“Alright,” he answered and reached down to pick up the sword.

Thorald took it from him quickly and raised his hand to hold it in front of himself in a defensive stance. “Get a move on then, Elf.”

Kaermo led him out of the torture chamber. The room outside had been decorated with bodies in Thalmor armor and the walls were painted with blood. Thorald let out a low whistle at the sight. “You sure didn’t let anyone off.”

“Self-defense,” Kaermo answered and avoided looking at the corpses. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t killed them, he still felt nauseous.

It seemed like the massacre had its use at least, since Thorald didn’t hold the sword quite as rigidly when they moved into the next room. Kaermo on the other hand, kept his guard up. Thorald always stayed behind him and a quick cut with the blade could bring Kaermo down before he had a chance to react.

They finally escaped from the keep through a secret passage that Sanyon had showed him. Outside two horses stood, waiting for them, with packages and sleeping pelts bound to their backs. Kaermo strode forward to one of them and opened the container closest to him. Bread, cheese and bottles of mead filled the bag and Kaermo handed it to Thorald.

“Get your strength back and then we get out of here.”

†††

They rode hard and quick. The horses were breathing heavily and almost shaking in exhaustion as Kaermo finally pulled his to a stop. They’d reached a river and from what Kaermo had seen of the Stormcloak maps, there was a camp by the mountainside on the other bank.

“We only need to cross the river and there will be Stormcloaks on the other side,” Kaermo said.

Thorald looked at him and then back at the river. “I’m not a Stormcloak yet.”

“But I am. I doubt there’ll be any problems.”

They dismounted and let the horses graze and drink. The stars were mirrored in the dark water and the sparse vegetation around them moved in the light breeze. Up in the mountains behind them, wolves were howling. Kaermo only hoped they stayed up there. Thorald was not fit for a fight and the steeds wouldn’t be fast enough to get away given how tired they were. Even after resting for a while, their heavy breaths could still be seen eerily easy in the brisk evening air.

Kaermo took the time to eat and drink himself, but he was unnerved as Thorald kept stealing glances at him. After having finished his small meal, Kaermo turned around to stare back at him. “What?”

“I did not expect this. And I still can’t believe there are Stormcloaks over there.”

“You will see, soon enough.”

“Even if I don’t trust you, I’m thankful for getting me out of there.”

Kaermo smiled. “Thank you for not stabbing me in the back.”

Thorald chuckled and grabbed his horse’s reins. “I can see why Ralof would like you.”

They started moving again, slower this time. Neither spoke as they rode along the riverbank, over a bridge and then followed the river again towards the camp. Kaermo wasn’t sure what he would find there. He had spoken with Ralof before leaving Windhelm and knew that it was likely that the man was at the camp, since it was the planned rendezvous. But more than that, he had no idea. He hadn’t talked to Galmar or Jarl Ulfric before leaving, so he didn’t know if they would take his absence as disobedience.

Kaermo stopped his line of thought as he discerned a campfire surrounded by tents. The camp was close to the mountainside with an open area in front of it that stretched down to the river. It was quite well hidden and probably easy to defend, but there didn’t seem to be any good escape routes if they were attacked from the river.

As they got closer, a man got up from where he was seated by the fireplace and ran towards them.

“Thorald!” he called out. Kaermo smiled as he recognized Ralof’s voice.

Thorald got off his horse without even pulling it to a stop and caught Ralof into a fierce hug. While the two cousins were speaking animatedly, Kaermo dismounted and brought both of the steeds over to the camp’s horses. A soldier stepped forward to take them from him and he bowed in thanks.

“Kaermo!” a booming voice said.

Kaermo snapped his head around and stared at Galmar Stone-Fist. He had never seen the man outside Ulfric’s war room. He didn’t even know that he went outside to the camps himself.

“What are you doing here?” he found himself saying and quickly bowed and added a: “sir.”

“Touring the camps and getting you back it seems.”

“Did Ralof speak for me?”

“Aye, he praised your actions and defended you. And we can agree that this was a brave journey. But that doesn’t mean a soldier can act without orders.”

“I had promised him I would help, sir.”

Galmar looked him up and down and grunted. Laying a hand on his shoulder, he pulled him towards the campfire. “You’re injured. Come.”

But barely had they gotten there when a shout rang through the night. “Imperials! They are attacking!”

Galmar pulled his battleaxe from his back and ran towards the water. “Men, behind me!”

The Stormcloaks all moved in unison; equipping themselves and spreading out to protect the camp. Kaermo brought out his knives and followed Galmar. The officer had already gotten into a close fight with two Imperials, so Kaermo sneaked up beside him and stabbed one of the soldiers in the side. The man sunk to the ground with a groan and Kaermo moved on to his next opponent.

The Imperial group was small. In the chaos of battle, Kaermo could only count to about a dozen soldiers. It seemed like they had mostly likely stumbled upon the camp. The difference in strength was too big for it to have been a planned attack.

Kaermo fought his way through the Imperials; slashing and cutting. He didn’t stop until he’d reached the riverbank and could no longer see any living opponents. As he turned back, he found himself staring at the battlefield. Bodies in red and brown armor laid before him. Some weren’t dead, judging by the groans of pain, but most of them were silent with eyes stared unseeingly into the night.

He felt nauseous again. Most of his missions involved information and not brute force. He had fought in wars before, but he’d never gotten used to it.

The blood on his knives glittered darkly in the dim light from the moon and he got down on his knees to empty the contents of his stomach onto the riverbank.

†††

Galmar and Ralof travelled with Thorald and Kaermo back to Windhelm, the day after the skirmish. Their horses were well rested and fed and Galmar said that he planned for them to be back at the Palace before nightfall the day after tomorrow.

Ralof and Thorald kept conversing the whole trip, but Ralof made sure to thank Kaermo profusely in between the time the cousins spent together.

Galmar however, stayed by himself mostly. He had brought a map over Skyrim and frowned over it every time they stopped to rest or eat.

They rode through the marshes of Morthal before stopping to switch horses at the Hjaalmarch Stormcloak Camp. Galmar immediately went into a tent with the officer of the camp while Thorald and Ralof sat down to chat with the Stormcloaks. Kaermo moved around the camp, mapping out his surroundings. Tall firs covered with snow were scattered over the area and small cliff sides soon gave way for large mountains.

As Kaermo moved farther away from the camp, he saw a small familiar figure running across the snowy plain. “Delphine?” he called out.

She stopped and turned around to stare at him. “Kaermo?”

He glanced back to check that no one was following him before catching up with her. “Why are you all the way out here?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” she said and clasped his hand in greeting.

“The Stormcloaks,” he said with a wave towards the camp. “I’m travelling with them.”

“Huh.”

Instead of the blue dress she'd had at the inn, she now wore leather armor, with a sword at her hip and a knapsack on her back.

“Out adventuring?”

“You could say that. There was something here in Ustengrav that you will need when you finally realize your importance as the dragonborn.”

Why was she so interested in the dragon legends? Why would she come all the way out here for something like that? And why did she look more like a soldier than an innkeeper? There was so much he wanted to ask but he knew she wouldn’t answer his questions, so he only said: “Oh?” hoping she would reveal something herself.

She nodded slowly. “The Greybeards at High Hrothgar can train you but they will ask you to retrieve an item for them. To speed things up a bit, I collected said item for you.”

“How do you know this?”

“Come find me when you really want to know. I’ll be waiting,” she answered and started running again.

Kaermo stood there, looking after her until she disappeared. She had an interesting method of persuasion but he had to admit that it worked; his curiosity was piqued.

†††

Their company reached Windhelm as planned and immediately went to the Palace of the Kings. The guards held the doors opened for them, bowing their heads to Galmar as they passed. The moment they entered the throne room, Ulfric Stormcloak strode forward to meet them. His mouth was set in a line and his brow was furrowed, but some light showed in his eyes when he looked at his second in command.

“I heard there was an attack,” he stated, addressing Galmar who nodded.

“Aye, a small skirmish.”

“Any dead?”

“Not from our side.”

Satisfied, the Jarl turned to Thorald. “You must be Ralof's cousin and the prisoner of the Thalmor.”

“Yes, my Jarl.”

“Would you be willing to share any information you’ve managed to gather, no matter how insignificant it might seem, with my steward?”

Thorald nodded, a grave look on his face. “I’ll do anything to bring those bastards down.”

Ulfric smiled grimly at him. “Thank you,” he gestured at Ralof. “Get him to a bed and make sure he has everything he needs.”

The cousins bowed and stepped away to follow his orders. Kaermo felt his body twitch as he stopped himself from joining them. He hadn’t been excused so he had to stay. But Jarl Ulfric hadn’t even looked at him yet, which probably wasn’t a very good sign, and unease built in his stomach. It didn’t matter that Galmar seemed to have accepted his absence, the man probably wouldn’t defend him if Ulfric was angered.

“My Jarl?” Kaermo said when no comment seemed to be forthcoming.

Galmar laughed beside him and he glanced at him questioningly. “The Elf addressed you with respect at least. He greeted me by asking what I was doing.”

Kaermo held his breath as Ulfric’s gaze went from his second in command to him. That piercing stare looked like it could see right through him and he felt himself shiver in anticipation. He would probably be met with some sort of rebuttal, but to his surprise, the corners of Jarl Ulfric’s lips turned up into a smile.

“We’ve got ourselves another troublemaker then? That seems familiar.”

Galmar scoffed. “I was never as nosy as this one. Not before I got in your good graces.”

“Who says he’s not in my good graces?”

Kaermo let out his breath with a whoosh and the two Men laughed at him.

“Are you seriously teasing me?” he asked disbelievingly. Elenwen would never speak with him in a relaxed manner. His true superiors never had. But these Men talked to him like he was one of them, how confounding!

“See?!” Galmar exclaimed and pointed at him. “No propriety.”

Ulfric smirked. “I see him but I hear your words coming out of his mouth. Are you sure you haven’t taught him your manners?”

“This is ridiculous. I was never that bad. Do you need me for anything more tonight, my Jarl?”

“You can go, Galmar,” Ulfric said, clapping him once on the shoulder before waving him away.

Kaermo was alone with Ulfric Stormcloak. After all the time that he had been waiting for this moment, it seemed a bit anticlimactic. There was no feeling of grandeur as during his encounters with Elenwen and even General Tullius. Jarl Ulfric, despite his booming voice and tall presence, seemed more likely to treat Kaermo kindly than his own people. It reminded Kaermo of his quick meeting with Jarl Balgruuf who had acted similarly.

“If you leave without permission again, there will be consequences,” Jarl Ulfric stated.

“Of course, my Jarl.”

“But what you did was a great service to Ralof and the cause.”

Kaermo bowed. “I only did what I had promised him.”

“He said he asked you for information. This is much more than that.”

Kaermo looked up and caught Ulfric watching him. His brow was slightly furrowed and there seemed to be a question on his lips that wasn't going to be spoken. The dark eyes moved over Kaermo’s face as if mapping his features and Kaermo found himself fighting down a blush that threatened to cover his cheeks.

“You’re injured again.”

“I've fought a dragon, the Thalmor and some Imperials in the last week.”

Ulfric tilted his head to the side. “Did they recognize you?”

“What?” Kaermo frowned.

“The Thalmor.”

He shook his head. He hadn’t planned for this question but it was surely not smart to say that they knew who he was. “I sneaked inside and stabbed them in the back. They didn’t see me.”

“Go see one of the healers and then get some rest. You’ve deserved it.”

“Thank you, my Jarl,” Kaermo said, bowing, and moved towards the soldiers’ barracks. He could feel the exhaustion from the last week seeping into his bones, when he let it. His injuries had been checked at the Stormcloak Camps and he had gotten a few healing potions to treat them, so he didn’t really feel like the first part of the order was very important at the moment. Plus the other Stormcloaks seemed to be sleeping and he didn’t want to disturb Lilija’s rest. He wouldn’t go to any other healer if he had a choice. In slightly more than a month, he trusted her with his wellbeing more than anyone else in Skyrim. He glanced over to her bed and shook his head. He wasn’t going to wake her up.

He laid down on a cot of his own instead and sleep took him before his head even touched the pillow.


	4. The Children of Skyrim

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for being so slow with updates!

Kaermo felt warmth upon his face. He opened his eyes, blinking at the rays of sun shining through the pointed-arch windows. When he tried to sit up, his back protested and he flopped back down with a groan.

“Seems like someone woke up on the wrong side today. Have you finally decided to stay with us others and not in your expensive bed at the Hall?”

“Lilija. Help me.”

She snorted and he turned his head to look at her, raising his eyebrows. Her hair was like a skeever’s nest atop her head and a few strands had stuck to her cheek. Seems like he wasn’t the only one who had woken up on the wrong side.

“The magic word.”

“Please, would you be as gracious as to heal my bruises and cramps?”

“You should have done something about that before you went to bed, stupid elf,” she muttered, rolling her eyes.

He smiled bashfully. “I will next time, if you help me now.”

Her hands lit up with her Restoration powers and waves of molten gold transferred to Kaermo. He gasped as he felt the sores and aches get drawn out from within him. But suddenly the flow of energy stopped. Lilija had lowered her arms again and her body sagged on the bed. Kaermo reached out for her, but his feet were tangled with the blanket and he ended up rolling to the floor. He blinked disoriented, catching himself staring up at her face. She had managed to steady herself with a hand upon his shoulder and was leaning against him.

“What’s wrong?” he whispered.

She shook her head in a slow, careful movement. “I just need some rest.”

“I’ll fetch a healer.”

“No, no, no. I don’t need anything, Kaermo.”

He clutched her free hand in his. “Lilija-“

“Just- Tell Galmar that I can’t join today. I’ll sleep this off.”

They stared at each other. There were splotches of red in her eyes. Dark circles beneath them.

“I’ll check on you in a few hours.”

She removed her hand from his and laid down again. “Get going now. You look ridiculous sitting on the floor like that. And we both know Galmar won’t be lenient with you if you’re late.”

†††

She was wrong. While Galmar glared at him when he first joined the other Stormcloaks in the courtyard, the anger disappeared as soon as he told him that Lilija needed to rest today.

Targets for archery stood against the castle wall and everyone had been fitted with a longbow and arrows. Kaermo fell into his line with the other soldiers as Galmar started barking out orders again. His arms felt strong as he lifted the bow. The ache was completely gone. He forced all thoughts of Lilija out of his head, focusing on the target instead and breathing slowly as everything else was filtered away.

Breathe in. Release.

†††

Kaermo followed the Stormcloaks to the Great Hall as midday came. He grabbed two bowls of soup before making his way towards the sleeping quarters.

He had just turned around a corner when he heard the steps of someone approaching him fast from behind. Suddenly, a hand gripped his shoulder, shoving him into the wall. His head hit the stone and he gasped in pain. The bowls fell from his hands and smashed against the floor, sending scolding soup everywhere.

A large, hulking Man crowded him towards the wall. His breaths, reeking of mead, puffed against Kaermo’s cheek. “So, goldenrod’s one of us now, huh?”

Kaermo brought his arms up and pushed the man away, before gripping one of his hidden knives in his hand. “Jarl Ulfric made me a Stormcloak. He won’t let you touch me.”

He got a chuckle in answer. “You think you’re safe here? You stay in our land and we’ll send you crying to Ulfric. Then you’ll see how much he cares about the resident goldenrod.”

“Get away from me!”

“Have you been to the Grey Quarter? We go there every night but Ulfric doesn’t care. He doesn’t have anything to spare for whiny elven bastards.”

The man moved towards him and Kaermo pressed his dagger against his belly.

“One step closer, I _dare_ you.”

“There’s a grave in the Grey Quarter with your name on it. I would watch my steps if I were you,” the man said and, finally, stepped back, walking away with a smirk on his face.

Kaermo stood frozen until he could no longer hear the other man, then he sagged against the wall and breathed deeply.

He had, of course, known that a lot of the Nords disliked his presence even after he’d proved himself, but knowing and being confronted were two very different things. And there was quite a leap between disliking someone and threatening to kill them.

Should he tell the Stormcloaks who tolerated him about the incident? Most of them would probably believe him. It wasn’t that unlikely, after all, for something like this to happen. He might get some protection if he told them. Someone to watch his back.

On the other hand, he couldn’t afford to be watched too closely. What if someone noticed his routinely letters to Elenwen? He shouldn’t come off as a snitch either. There might still be some soldiers that he could win over and it wouldn’t help his reputation if he outed one of them.

He couldn’t go to the Jarl either. The man had been correct in that Jarl Ulfric cared little for the lives of his Mer citizens. Kaermo also didn’t want to ruin the progress he’d made. He’d actually gotten to talk to the Jarl after he’d arrived with Thorald but he needed to gain more of Jarl Ulfric’s respect. He should be careful not to appear weak in front of him.

Sighing, he went down to his knees and collected the ceramic pieces. He would dispose of them and get some new soup for Lilija. Maybe it was a good thing that this happened while she was sick, seeing as she probably wouldn’t notice that something was off.

†††

A few weeks went by where preparations were made for an excursion to Korvanjund.  A shopkeeper in Windhelm, Calixto Corrium, had been consulted about his knowledge of Nord artifacts, the court-wizard Wuunferth the Unliving and his healers practiced in the Schools of Illusion and Alteration in the Great Hall and the soldiers’ training focused mainly on close combat in tight spaces. The Stormcloaks were finally going to search for the Jagged Crown.

They made their way into the mountains as a troop. Infantry, officers, healers.

Snow was falling in abundance from the skies. The sharp mountainsides were mostly covered in white; only some cliffs still showed off their dark, glinting stone.

Kaermo walked next to Lilija, keeping an eye on her. She had seemed better and better over the last few days, but he wanted to be sure that her magic wouldn’t exhaust her again. He needed allies among the Stormcloaks. He just needed to make sure that she stayed alive. For the mission. If she was badly hurt-

“Kaermo?”

“Yes?”

“Are you alright?”

He rolled his eyes at her concern. “Of course. Are _you_ alright?”

She nodded. “You don’t need to watch me like a hawk any longer.”

“I was just worried.”

“Are you used to taking care of people?”

“What?”

“You seemed like you were. That’s all.”

Kaermo stared up the road in front of them. The ranks of the Stormcloaks had gotten more and more separated from each other as they moved. Some slid backwards in the snow while others plodded on without much problem.

“I- My little brother was a frail child.”

He hadn’t thought about him in a long time.

“Where is he now?”

“Alinor.”

Lilija hummed. “I have a family in Riften and that Imperial bitch Maven Blackbriar has the city in an iron grip. I know how it feels to fear you’ve left your loved ones in a wolf’s den.”

“Are you getting them out of there?”

“They all have too deep ties to Riften to want to leave. My mother is a priestess of Talos with her own shrine there. And one of my brothers is the Jarl’s housecarl. None of them have listened to me when I ask them to come to Windhelm.”

Kaermo wanted to curl his lip at the mention of Tiber Septim. That she also believed in Talos shouldn’t be so surprising, but he managed to forget their differences sometimes. The Eight Divines couldn’t be equated to a mortal Man like the Talos-worshippers thought. He might be a hero of the humans but that didn’t raise him to the likes of Auri-El. The gods didn’t bow down to the people. It was heresy.

But he couldn’t show her what he really felt. Not even all Altmer cared about the gods enough to do something about the Talos-worshippers. Only the Thalmor had taken that matter into their hands, and there was nothing more dangerous for him than to be linked to the Thalmor right now.

“My condolences. But isn’t there a temple for Talos in Windhelm?”

Lilija smiled wryly. “She is stubborn. And she feels that she is needed there where the danger of the war and the Imperials is stronger than here.”

“Ah. Yes. My mother acted similarly,“ he halted. He heard himself mumble something unintelligible. What could he tell her?

“Kaermo?”

He turned towards her again and found her watching him with a frown between her brows.

“You don’t have to talk about her if it pains you.”

She was concerned for him.

He needed to conjure his usual disgust for _lowly, sentimental, gullible_ _humans_. He looked her in the eyes and thought that she was beneath him. Bile rose in his throat. _She was worth nothing. She could die and he shouldn’t care_.

Something touched his hand. He blinked in confusion at the mitten covered hand that wrapped around his.

“It will be alright,” she said and pressed his hand.

 _She was nothing_.

 _She was a Talos worshipper_. _She was a heretic_. _She was someone the Aldmeri Dominion would have killed without a second thought_.

†††

They arrived at Korvanjund to the sounds of war horns and officers shouting orders. The Imperial army was already there. Kaermo and Lilija exchanged gazes; her face grim in the moonlight. Someone must have warned the Imperials about Jarl Ulfric’s plans.

Kaermo put a concerned look upon his face. He would probably be the first suspect when they got back to Windhelm and he needed to act normal from now on until he had been cleared.

Why had Elenwen relayed his information to General Tullius? Why did it matter to her whether Ulfric Stormcloak got his crown or not? It wasn’t like it really did matter in the grand scheme of things, or did it? Maybe Elenwen had gotten something in exchange for this information, maybe she needed better connection with the Imperials, or maybe she felt Jarl Ulfric was at the risk of becoming too strong.

To Kaermo this mostly just complicated his way up the Stormcloak ranks, since he was already the subject of their suspicions.

His missions were always on need-to-know basis only. It was the best strategy in case he got caught, but at other times it was frustrating not to know why he was hindered in his work.

The Stormcloaks spread out to defend themselves against the approaching Imperials. Arrows from hidden archers came raining down on them, killing or scraping those who hadn’t gotten out of the way.

Kaermo drew his swords and kept close to Lilija.

Galmar hadn’t given them any instructions for a battle with the Imperials. They were prepared to meet Draugr, grave robbers or other bandits. But not an army.

“Push forward! Get their archers! Force them back!” Galmar shouted.

The Stormcloaks started moving with purpose as the confusion from the first shock had lessened. Lilija followed a small group of soldier as they made their way around the left, probably to strike from behind. Her hands shone with magic and she had a fierce glint in her eyes. She would be alright it seemed.

Kaermo sprinted into the old ruins. He was fast and light and would benefit his side better this way.

His first opponent was an archer crouched behind a fallen rock. Kaermo slashed at his throat, spraying red blood over the snow, before jumping over the body to leap at another soldier.

This one saw him coming and threw his bow to the side to raise his sword just in time to parry Kaermo’s hit. Their blades clashed together. Kaermo went forward with a flurry of slashes; one sword there and another there. Knees, throat, arms, hands. A hit to the Imperial’s leg slipped through his defenses and cut through his armor. He grunted in pain and parried Kaermo’s next slash too slowly. It hit him in the shoulder and before he fell to the ground, Kaermo had already cut his throat.

The killing continued as he got closer and closer to, what he presumed was, the main gates to the old ruins. He didn’t meet much resistance while he pushed forward. If the Imperials knew they were coming; why were they so few and so unprepared?

When he stood at the gates with no enemies left close by, he raised his eyes higher to look for the other Stormcloaks. From the shouts and clangs of weapons, the fighting was still going on. He moved to follow the sounds when something caught his gaze.

There was a jet-black claw lying in the snow beside one of the bodies. Kaermo turned it over in his hands; it seemed to be made of ebony ore and there were pictorial inscriptions of animals in its palm. Why did the Imperials have an ebony claw with them to Korvanjund and what was it for? He put it in his rug sack before running to join the Stormcloaks again.

†††

Galmar gathered most of the Stormcloaks inside the main gates of Korvanjund after the fighting had ended. The Imperials had retreated and disappeared into the woods, leaving behind only bodies. A group of Stormcloaks guarded the entrance in case they returned but the essential force was deployed inside the ruins to search for the Jagged Crown.

Kaermo had handed Galmar the claw. When he asked him what he thought it was, the man had only laughed.

Lilija, however, explained it to him while they moved through the ruins. “I’ve never seen one before but I have heard of them. My mother used to say that the ancient ones protected their graves from robbers with puzzles and traps. She said that the Dragon Claw was the key and that the ancient Nord gods were instrumental in solving the puzzle of the tomb.”

“You have a lot of legends here in Skyrim.”

“And many seem to be true,” she said, pushing aside some rubble to clear the way into another chamber.

The stone walls were cavernous and ragged. It was difficult to see any similarities with the ancient ruins of southern Tamriel even though they might be close to each other in age. The grace and tenderness of the temples couldn’t be seen in these thick, sturdy walls and rough interiors. There was a kind of beauty to it though and the style suited the cold, harsh terrain of Skyrim.

Kaermo smiled to himself; in this he could be honest with Lilija and share her appreciation for her country.

She seemed knowledgeable about Nord legends and there was a chance she knew something about the Dragonborn. Maybe he could ask her and maybe he could get her to keep quiet. She certainly seemed to care for him after all. He shouldn’t say anything; he really shouldn’t. But he had already been close to showing her once and he might need an ally if they ever met a dragon again.

“Lilija…”

She crouched in front of him to look around a corner. “Yeah?”

“Do you- Have you heard about the Dragonborn?”

“Uh huh. All children in Skyrim grow up with tales about them.”

“I heard that the Dragonborn speaks like dragons. But also that he is expected to kill them.”

The silence stretched between them. It was all the more palpable since nothing could be heard other than the rustle of gravel and dust falling from the walls, most likely caused by people walking at higher levels.

Lilija’s head was turned slightly to the side but she looked down as she asked: “He?”

Kaermo swallowed. “I-”

“There was a strange light when we killed the dragon up at Mount Anthor. And I’ve heard rumors about the Dragonborn being in Riverwood,” she finally turned around completely to meet his gaze. “What do you want to ask me, Kaermo?”

“Why is the Dragonborn expected to kill dragons?”

“To stop Alduin.”

Kaermo nodded slowly. Was he supposed to stop the World Eater? Was that what Delphine wanted from him? He had never fought, as himself, for another cause than the Thalmor’s. Maybe he wouldn’t this time either. Maybe he could be the Dragonborn as he was a Stormcloak. Maybe that would get him Jarl Ulfric’s trust.

But telling anyone would mean that Elenwen found out and that would bring his identities crumbling together. _He_ wouldn’t be separated from Kaermo the Dragonborn if _she_ knew.

“Kaermo. What is it?”

“This can’t get out. You know that right?”

“The Dragonborn is valued amongst Nords. You wouldn’t be-“

“I don’t want to paint a target on my family’s backs. You said that you understood, Lilija, so please listen to me now. They are in Alinor with the Thalmor and the Thalmor will know if you tell anyone.”

“Fine,” she sighed but clasped his hand. “I won’t tell. I promise.”

†††

The Jagged Crown was found in the end by Galmar himself. The Stormcloaks had all flocked around him as they fought the Draugr but he had been the one to search the bodies.

Kaermo only saw the artifact from afar, but it seemed like the name was fitting. The whole thing looked jagged and very uncomfortable to wear. There was a base structure made out of bones with metal implants and large dragons’ teeth stuck out from it like the jaw of a legendary Welwa.

The Stormcloaks made their way back to Windhelm slowly. They had to carry the people who were still wounded; mostly Imperial captives from the battle who wouldn’t be treated by a Healer until they were safely behind Windhelm’s walls.

Galmar and a small troop of soldiers had went before the others to ensure that the Crown reached Jarl Ulfric as fast as possible.

†††

Not much changed after they had gotten back to Windhelm again. There was some talk about the moot and what the other Jarls would decide, but nothing seemed certain. The date hadn’t even been announced from Solitude yet.

There were no news about who had leaked information to the Imperials either. Though Kaermo might not have been privy to any talk on that front. He was careful not to decide that people were watching him before he saw any clear signs of it. There were still some looks and comments that were obviously intended to make him feel unwelcome but that wasn’t anything new. He couldn’t make certain that anything had changed. But he didn’t dare to think that he wasn’t a suspect.

He kept a low profile to make sure that he didn’t worsen the situation. This mostly meant no communication with Elenwen, since he hadn’t gotten close enough to Jarl Ulfric to even try to influence him in any way. In a way this allowed him to take a breather in the mission. He couldn’t force himself into the Jarl’s presence if it might be interpreted as suspicious behavior.

Though Elenwen had seemed dissatisfied with his progress when he met her at Nortwatch keep. Why did she not want him to be careful with this mission?

Kaermo pushed the matter to the back of his head for the evening. Ralof and Gunjar had invited him for a celebratory drink with the other Stormcloaks and he couldn’t very well show up with a troubled mind.

The celebration took place in the barracks where tables had been set up and mead in abundance had been brought up from the cellars. The bard, Luaffyn, from Candlehearth Hall was there, accompanied by a few musicians, and their music filled the large space between the stone walls.

Gunjar guided him to the middle of the room and grabbed them a bottle of mead each. Kaermo sighed inwards but resigned himself to drinking a little bit at least for appearances sake. He kept close to Gunjar, Ralof and a few other familiar faces, making friendly conversation and sharing stories of the battle at Korvanjund. As the night went on he found himself sitting in a corner of the room. He’d taken the bottle of mead with him but still drank only in small sips. The strong bitter taste was potent enough anyways.

Ralof had sat with him for a while, taking a breather. But he’d left him when some of the Stormcloaks started a drinking game in the middle of the room. Judging by their cheery laughter and anticipative noises, everyone was in high spirits. One of the voices stood out from the rest; Galmar, singing about the war together with the bard. The way that the lyrics mocked the Empire seemed to make the surrounding Stormcloaks even happier and shouts of assent soon drowned out the music.

Kaermo had hoped that Lilija would show up, but he hadn’t seen even a glimpse of her yet. Maybe she’d decided to go to bed instead of celebrating. While Ralof and a few others were friendly towards him, he still wished that she were there.

He tapped his foot against the floor. The people in front of him seemed a blurry mess of bodies and faces; none distinguishable from the other. They were one, in spirit, in movement, in purpose. He was supposed to be up there amongst them, cheering, singing and talking. Being friendly and making friends. He was good at that. It was his mission.

A line dance started opposite him. The Nords all knew the steps; some completing them with grace, others stumbling through the choreography.

Kaermo rose from his chair. Maybe someone could teach him. As he started walking over the floor though, he noticed that the room swayed around him. He was certain that he had barely drunk anything; the bottle wasn’t even half empty! Had there been something wrong with his mead? He held his hands slightly out to his sides; trying to steady himself.

Someone bumped into him, sending him stumbling backwards.

“Goldenrod,” he heard but when he looked up whoever said it had disappeared into the crowd.

The threat from before the battle echoed in his mind.

_I would watch my steps if I were you._

He really shouldn’t be drunk amongst them.

Doing his best to walk straight, he moved through the room towards the door. As soon as he had exited the room, he clutched his hidden knife in one hand. If someone decided to follow him, he would be prepared. He made it up to the second floor of the barracks when he heard someone on the steps behind him. Ducking into an alcove immediately, he hid behind a drapery decorated with the Bear of Eastmarch.

The voices of two people in quiet conversation passed by.

“- didn’t believe it. Roggvir was a good man.”

“What if you-“

Kaermo got out from his hiding place when he could no longer hear them. Stumbling and swaying while trying to watch his back, he made his way towards the dormitories.

†††

He woke up shivering.

A cold wind swept over him, spraying snow into his face. Opening his eyes, he saw his hands lying on the white ground, his skin so pale it was almost blue. He shuddered and curled into himself as his belly ached at the movement.

There was an acrid smell causing him to vomit again and again until nothing more came up and he was left gasping for air.

What had happened?

He remembered leaving the celebration but after that… nothing.

Moving slowly, as to not agitate his stomach, he pushed himself into a sitting position and looked around.

Grey, stone buildings towered over him and he seemed to be lying in an alley. Beside him barrels and crates were piled up against the wall and above him clothes hung on ropes between the houses.

How had he ended up here?

He pressed his shaking hands to his throat, hissing as cold shivers spread through his body.

Gingerly, he rose to his knees and propped his hands against the wall to push himself to his feet. His vision turned black for a moment before coming back blurry. Leaning against the wall, he waited for his head to catch up with his body. He stumbled out of the alley into the main street of the Grey Quarter.

Someone must have dragged him there. It couldn’t be a coincidence. Someone must have spiked his mead and dragged him there to scare him.

 _There’s a grave in the Grey Quarter with your name on it_.

But why was he still alive?

Maybe they wanted him gone, but didn’t want to kill him. Maybe they were scared of being discovered if they straight out murdered him. Maybe someone had seen them.

He regretted moving his things from the Candlehearth Hall to the barracks. Surely, he was safer out with the citizens and not the Stormcloaks. He shouldn’t have joined the party either and he especially shouldn’t have drunk anything. This was his failings. He hadn’t paid enough attention to his surroundings and he hadn’t been wary enough about the Stormcloaks who despised him.

By Oblivion, this was disgraceful and beneath him.

He would have to better himself. He was in enemy territory and he could never let down his guard. This had been just what he deserved for being unmindful.

†††

When he walked into the barracks’ dormitory, some of the Stormcloaks stopped what they were doing to stare at him. A few even leered at him.

He glared back and walked over to the bed where he had put his few belongings. There was no reason to keep staying in here during the nights when they could attack him as he was asleep. Better to move back to his room at the inn.

A man came up to him as he was finishing up his packing. ”Galmar wants to see you.”

Kaermo nodded at the Stormcloak’s words. It wasn’t unsurprising that something like this would happen. Galmar was sure to want to question him about the information leak since Kaermo was both a new recruit and a strange one.

He grabbed his backpack and left the dormitories immediately.

†††

Galmar stood outside the war room in the main hall. As he saw Kaermo walking towards him, he pushed himself off the wall and gestured for him to follow. They moved to the upper floors and into a small room, sparsely furnished. There were no windows, no other way out than the door which Galmar locked behind himself.

This was surely not good. He seemed to have ended up in an interrogation room again and he needed to steel himself for what was to follow. No matter how he tried to look calm though, he was still frozen to his bones and a bit dizzy. His body wasn’t listening to his commands to appear as if nothing was wrong.

Galmar sat down beside a large desk and nodded for Kaermo to sit in front of him. “You doin’ alright there, elf?”

Kaermo arched a brow. “Yes. How so?”

“You’re shaking.”

“I woke up in a pile of snow in the Grey Quarter and I’m freezing,” Kaermo answered honestly.

“The Grey Quarter?”

“Yeah, some kind of prank maybe. I don’t remember much from last night.”

“Why do you have your bag with you? Are you leaving unannounced again?”

Kaermo bit his lip. “I’m going to stay at the inn instead.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want to wake up in the snow again.”

Galmar leaned forward over the table. “Why did you think this was a prank and not the result of you wandering by yourself? You said that you don’t remember what happened.”

“I- no, you’re right. It’s probably my own fault. I can’t hold my liquor.”

“Kaermo, I’ve talked to Lilija.”

 _What_?! Had she told him that he was dragonborn?

He felt his breath catch in his throat and he forced his hands to stay still on his lap and not scratch at his neck like he wanted to do. “What?”

“She was concerned about you. Said that some of the soldiers were heckling you and that you looked scared.”

She hadn’t betrayed him. He wanted to breathe out and sag in his chair but that would make it obvious that he thought Galmar would question him about something else. Something far more dangerous.

But this was a golden opportunity to use the picture of unease he had already portrayed to his favor. He could make Galmar think he was a bad liar.

He kept sitting stiffly in his chair and glanced up at Galmar to stare directly into his eyes as if he was trying to convince him that his next words were especially honest. “What? No! No one’s done anything.”

After a few seconds he flicked his eyes away and then back again. “It was just a prank. That’s all. Or I wandered on my own like you said.”

“You wandered on your own through the whole palace and down to the Grey Quarter while you were drunk out of your mind?”

“Yeah.”

“I am aware that many of them dislike you already. Did they threaten you?”

Kaermo shook his head.

“Why are you so intent on keeping this to yourself? I promise that I’ll do something about them if you tell me what happened. Even though I might not like you that much either, you are a Stormcloak and have done a greater service than most already. Thorald Gray-Mane is safe with us because of you.”

“You would believe me over your own kind?”

“I know what my men are capable of. You should to. If you aren’t prepare to face their anger then you should leave us. I’ve been critical of you joining us since the beginning but Ulfric seems to want you.”

Kaermo nodded. “I understand. And this is why I’m going to stay at the inn. Because I know what they could do.”

“You’re stubborn.”

“I can handle whatever they throw at me. And if I have overestimated myself, then that is on my head.”

“What about Lilija? She is loyal and worried about you. Surely she would feel comforted if you told me.”

Kaermo raised an eyebrow. “Did you really call me here just to talk about her concerns?”

This got him a chuckle. “No, I have something else to ask you. It’s only customary of course, but I need to hear if you’ve been in contact with anyone about the Jagged Crown.”

“I have not.”

“Not even in a seemingly innocence manner? A letter to an old acquaintance perhaps?”

“I’ve not told anyone about the crown. Most of my old acquaintances are enemies now too.”

Galmar nodded slowly, pursing his lips. “You are free to go, Kaermo,” he said and got up to unlock the door. “But you can come and talk to me again if anyone bothers you.”

Kaermo bowed his head slightly as he passed Galmar and said his thanks before leaving. With his rug sack on his back, he made his way through the streets of Windhelm to Candlehearth Hall. He got paid in Septims for his service to the Stormcloaks so he could afford to stay at the inn for the duration of his mission. And he’d meant what he had told Galmar; he would handle himself in the future. This was just the smart way of doing things.

†††

The coming days passed by quickly. Nothing out of the ordinary happened; no threats, backstabbing or waking up in a ditch. The Stormcloaks kept practicing in the courtyard, while occasionally leaving Windhelm for the usual short missions.

Maybe the Stormcloaks were biding their time. Or maybe Galmar had spoken with them anyways.

Whatever the reason, Kaermo was thankful for the lack of altercations, while at the same time wary that something would happen when he was least expecting it.

Lilija had frowned at him when he told her that he’d moved back to the inn. But she didn’t try to convince him not to leave the dormitories or ask him why. He didn’t tell her about his talk with Galmar either. If he did, she would probably ask him about what had happened and if she knew, she might try to do something to help him. She was very protective and he shouldn’t risk her getting between him and the Stormcloaks. If something happened to her, he had lost his best ally after all.

That’s all she was.

An ally.

†††

Even though he mostly avoided the barracks nowadays, Kaermo still tried to show up at celebrations and events that the Stormcloaks hosted. He wouldn’t win anyone over by hiding away after all.

He ended up in the kitchens one evening, after he’d shared a meal in the main hall with the others, as per Lilija’s request. Ralof had then invited him for a game of dice and he’d followed him to the more secluded areas on the upper floors of the palace.

A few officers were scattered amongst the people up there and Ulfric Stormcloak was one of them. He sat in a corner of the room, nursing a bottle of mead, while speaking quietly with the steward Jorleif.

In the dim light of the room, Ulfric’s eyes were hooded in darkness, but Kaermo thought he saw the Jarl watching him.

Should he go over to talk to him? No, they seemed to be in deep conversation and he shouldn’t be a bother if he wanted him to like him.

Kaermo turned his attention to Ralof and his friends instead, focusing on the game. They all seemed happy to have him there. Gunjar smiled and clapped him on the back as he won his first match against Thorald.

The game changed as the night went on – cards, guessing games, dares – until most people had left for the dormitories.

It reminded Kaermo of his nights with his fellow students at the College of Whispers. He’d studied the schools of Conjuration and Destruction with the mages there, but some of his attention had been taken up by following his friends to their evening activities of drinking and gambling.

He usually wasn’t one to stay this late though. He was just about to get up when he heard a voice.

“I still see their faces every night.”

Kaermo glanced up to see Ulfric standing close by with a mead bottle in his hand. “Of whom do you speak, my Jarl?”

Ulfric waved a hand at him. “None of that nonsense now. You may call me by my given name.”

“Only if you’ll say Kaermo instead of High-elf,” Kaermo answered with a smile.

“I fought in the Great War in Cyrodiil. I have battled for many years. Yet, I still see the faces of the dead,” Ulfric walked over to Kaermo’s chair and sat down opposite him in front of the hearth. “Have you fought in any wars before, Kaermo?”

Should he tell the truth? It probably wouldn’t hurt since Ulfric knew that Kaermo’s personal “rebellion” against the Thalmor hadn’t started very long ago.

“There were the fights between the Hlaalu and Redowan houses a couple of hundred years ago in Morrowind. Those were bloody. Then the Oblivion crisis and after that the Great War of course. I have been in many battles, Ulfric. Only the sides have shifted.”

“You’ve fought this long with only knives for weapons?”

Kaermo shook his head. “Short swords were popular in Morrowind at the time. And the Daedra were easiest to take down with arrows, out of range from their fires. I only fought in the Great War with these daggers and they were efficient enough for someone nimble and quick.”

Ulfric leaned back with a thoughtful look on his face and his brows drawn together.

“What makes you so confounded? My age or the fact that there are other battle techniques than brute strength and axes?”

“I do know that elves live longer than men.”

“So it is my ‘knives’ that bother you, then?”

“It is impressive that you can fight so well with such small tools.”

Kaermo chuckled. “Is that a euphuism?”

He got an exasperated glare for an answer.

“Are we speaking in riddles?”

“I gave you a compliment, elf, that’s it.”

“So it’s back to elf again, huh, Jarl Ulfric?”

“Kaermo-“

“No, no, I know. I’m being difficult.”

They sat in silence for a while; Kaermo unable to keep the smile from his face and Ulfric seemingly in deep contemplation.

The fire crackled and danced and outside the windows, snow fell from the sky, as usual in Skyrim.

“Elenwen said something about your parents. That you stir up trouble like they did.”

Kaermo turned to look at Ulfric, thinking of an answer, but he continued himself before Kaermo got a chance to say anything. “In the tent, with Tullius, after our capture at Darkwater.”

“Ah,” Kaermo nodded. “They were prominent members of Altmeri society. Not everyone agrees with what they did.”                                                                            

Saying they worked against the Thalmor might have made Ulfric sympathize with him. Why he didn’t make up something about them being killed by Elenwen’s henchmen was beyond him. He hadn’t meant to answer truthfully.

“Is that why she knew who you are?”

“Most people in Alinor know who I am,” he smiled. Most people in Alinor _thought_ they knew who he was. But spying for the Thalmor was classified information. “My role in the Aldmeri Dominion is the equivalent of a thane here in Skyrim.”

Ulfric chuckled, the sound cheerful and relaxed; at least to Kaermo’s ears, and took a swig of his mead. “I knew you were some bloody nobleman. You looked as uncomfortable in leather armor as you did in ragged robes.”

“You’re more of a nobleman than I am, Jarl Ulfric,” Kaermo objected.

“I am above noble and not noble at all.”

 “You’re drunk.”

Ulfric smirked. “Yes, I am.”

Kaermo shook his head, but a traitorous smile tugged at his lips. “I never understood the charm of your mead. Dunmeri sujamma has a much more refined taste.”

“Is that so?”

“Even Skooma is-“

“Oh no!” Ulfric pointed accusingly at him. “You cannot even compare mead to that Khajiit poison.”

Kaermo leaned forward and reached for Ulfric’s bottle. “Give me a taste and then we’ll see if I agree with you.”

Ulfric scooted to the edge of his chair before lending Kaermo the mead. “Sharing a man’s drink means you can’t insult it. Or him.”

“You just made that up,” Kaermo said and took a swig. “And why would I insult you?”

Ulfric licked his lips and laid his hands on Kaermo’s knees. Kaermo stared at them, feeling the warmth through the thin fabric of his trousers. He put the mead down on the table beside him and gripped the armrests of his chair.

“Ulfric-“

“You didn’t like it then?”

“What?” Kaermo stuttered. His eyes followed Ulfric’s fingers as they moved to his own hands, clutching the armrests. The callused hands covered his, making him too hot and sending sparks of warmth through his arms.

“The mead.”

He looked up, catching Ulfric closer than he had been before. His breaths blew over his cheek, making him shiver. “What are you doing?” he wanted to ask, but he wasn’t sure that Ulfric was doing something. Or aware that he was. He was drunk, Kaermo was sober and should therefore move before something else happened.

At the first tentative touch of lips against his, Kaermo held his breath. He sat still as though he had been frozen solid by an Ice Wraith. But his skin felt like it was on fire. The hands over his, the lips, wherever he touched Ulfric the man’s warmth spread through him. Humans were so much warmer than elves.

Kaermo flinched. The movement pulled him away from Ulfric who stumbled forward before catching himself against Kaermo’s chair and straightening up.

What had he done? Being with humans was forbidden.

How could he be so careless?

He had heard rumors and whispers of interracial relationships but they always stopped as quickly and discreetly as they had started. The creatures of mixed blood that existed were shunned and scorned in Altmeri society and a joining between Altmer and Man led to banishment from the Dominion.

How could he have done something so disgusting?

“Kaermo-“

“Don’t!” Kaermo got up from the chair and immediately stepped away from Ulfric. One of his hands rested against his lips were he could still feel the phantom touch of the kiss. “I can’t… I won’t- You can’t do this!”

“Shh, calm down,” Ulfric mumbled. His voice was low and soothing; the kind one uses while speaking to distressed animals.

“You can’t-”

Ulfric held up a hand. “Alright. Alright. I won’t.”

His eyes were narrowed and steely, but his posture was relaxed. Almost too relaxed, as though the air had left him. He looked weary and so much older than a human of his age should.

A human.

Kaermo bowed his head. “I will retire now, Jarl Ulfric. Goodnight,” he said and left the room without waiting for an answer or looking at him again.

†††

Kaermo sent a letter to Elenwen with a courier the next day. His hands had been shaking as he wrote but except for one blob of ink that forced him to rewrite the whole thing, he managed surprisingly well.

_E_

_Mission compromised._

_/K_


	5. In His Great Honor

Sleep had evaded Kaermo for most of the night. In the morning after he’d went out to send his letter, he stared up at the wooden roof above him, dimly noting that he was in is room at Candlehearth Hall and not at the Palace. His head kept spinning even though his body was heavy with exhaustion.

There were only a couple of things that he knew for certain. One; the Eight Divine ruled Tamriel. Two; Altmers were descendants of the gods.

Two important facts that he had built his principles around. Principles which he lived by and which were reflected in the rules and norms of the Summerset Isles.

During his early years at court in Alinor – before the Oblivion crisis and the Great War – what he saw around him and what he believed hadn’t been the same. People didn’t care about honoring the gods by living truthfully and in purity.

The Thalmor had been the only ones to stand up and fight and he had loosened his own principles for the cause.

A true descendant of the Aedra didn’t get together with humans.

He had broken that rule.

And he had to pretend to tolerate Tiber Septim, the false god.

His presence here in Skyrim seemed to be the ultimate test of both his abilities and his resolution.

But he had already failed. He was supposed to ignore his principles for the greater good and succeed at what he did. But when Jarl Ulfric kissed him he’d somehow forgotten how to act.

What in Oblivion was he supposed to do now? He kept staring into nothing, feeling his breath quicken and something squeeze his chest. He’d kissed a human. He’d let a drunk human kiss him. Not for the mission.

It wasn’t real if it was for the mission. An act, a mask, nothing more. But Ulfric kissing him wasn’t that. Kaermo couldn’t tell why this was so different – it would have brought him closer to the Jarl, after all – but he wouldn’t have panicked if it wasn’t.

He should have accepted the Jarl’s affections without question or thought about the morality of it. That was what he usually did when someone wanted to sleep with him after all. He should have let the Jarl do whatever he wanted.

The mission wasn’t compromised because Jarl Ulfric had kissed him, but because Kaermo had pushed him away.

†††

The Stormcloaks’ training in the courtyard continued as usual. As if nothing had changed. Kaermo knew not to be melodramatic – the events of last night meant nothing in the grand scheme of things after all – but he was still anxious and waiting for something to happen.

Would Jarl Ulfric keep him as a Stormcloak? Or would he be dismissed?

Correspondence with Elenwen took its time, which meant that her reaction wouldn’t happen right now. She might not care that he had estranged the Jarl a bit if he only managed to get back into his good graces soon enough.

He had to see him again.

†††

At lunchtime, Kaermo had barely sat down with Lilija in the Great hall when a courier walked up to them, handing him two letters. His stomach clenched with anticipation at the sight but he pocketed them for reading in solitude later. They couldn’t be from Elenwen – he _knew_ that – but it seemed his, somehow still existing, nerves didn’t.

As he turned back to his dinner, he stole a glimpse of the hall’s far end. A streak of light shone through the tall windows behind the empty throne, casting a pale glow over the long table where they sat.

“Are you looking for Ulfric?”

Kaermo turned towards her, contemplating whether to lie or not, before nodding.

“He’s been gone all morning and Galmar too.”

“Has anything happened?”

“Not that I know of. Ralof thought it might be about Roggvir’s execution though.”

“Roggvir?”

“A guard in Solitude. He let Jarl Ulfric out of the city after the king had died.”

After finishing his meal, he made his way to the room where he met the Jarl last night. He knew that the Jarl’s quarters laid close by so it was probably the best place to start searching.

An elderly man was sweeping the floors as he stepped into the room. The tables from the night before had been pushed to the sides and what remained was a large, empty space between the walls.

“Excuse me, sir.”

The man stopped working and looked up with a frown. “Don’t need no titles, boy.”

Kaermo briefly considered telling the man he probably had at least a hundred years on him before dismissing the thought. “Would you have seen the Jarl, perhaps?”

“Oh, yes, I have. He’s been chatterin’ with Galmar all day in his rooms.”

Kaermo nodded and said his thanks before leaving to knock on Jarl Ulfric’s door. There were voices coming from inside, and it probably wasn’t the best time for this, but he couldn’t let it fester and ruin his mission. What had transpired the night before needed to be fixed.

The people stopped talking and moments later the door opened. Galmar stood in the doorway, brows furrowing as he saw Kaermo. “What are you doing here, elf?”

“I wanted to-“ he met the Jarl’s gaze as the man stepped forward beside Galmar. “My Jarl, can-“

“Come back after you have been to the kitchens, Galmar.”

The Jarl’s words hung between them as they stared each other in turn. Kaermo would have shifted his weight or scratched his neck if he wasn’t too old for such obvious shows of discomfort.

“Jarl Ulfric, why-?”

“Galmar.”

The man finally left and Jarl Ulfric stepped back, gesturing at Kaermo to follow him. No overthinking or amateur reactions today. He just had to act and speak as a tool for the cause and not for his own morals.

“Jarl Ulfric-“

“I need to apologize.”

Light green eyes were fixed with steel determination upon Kaermo’s face.

“My Jarl?”

“I had not thought my affections were unwanted but I should have asked you beforehand and not presumed.”

“There’s no need to apologize to me.”

“But I scared you.”

Treading careful waters now, Kaermo decided to go with a half-truth. “You just surprised me. It is forbidden in Alinor, to lie with a Man.”

The room stayed silent for a few seconds and Kaermo watched Jarl Ulfric’s face turn from solemn to confused to amused. “You’ve lived this long and have only slept with elves?”

 Kaermo could only blink in answer.

“You did say you switched your fighting style, but maybe that was wrong.”

“You _are_ speaking in euphuisms!”

“Never polished a manmade blade?”

A disbelieving chuckle left him and the Jarl smirked.

“Parried with an orc?”

“They are Mer and not Man.”

“Really? Orcs but not Nords?”

“You’re being ridiculous.”

“Maybe. But you’re smiling.”

He was. He actually was. Smiling and flirting as though the troubles from last night were far from his mind.

And Ulfric smiled back. His full lips stretched into a charming grin, eyes crinkled at the sides and teeth showed ever so often as if nothing more than a conversation was needed to get back into his good graces and as if he didn’t care if Kaermo had rejected him.

“I should get back to training.”

“Aye, and we’ve kept Galmar out long enough too.”

†††

As Kaermo got back to the Candlehearth hall that night, he remembered the letters that he’d received.

They were obviously from different senders in different places; one a simple envelope, the other an extravaganza in color covered in stamps. The symbol for Alinor’s post office sat in the middle.

_Dear brother,_

_I’ll be travelling to your location, expect me as autumn begins._

He wasn’t surprised that Elenwen had shared where he had been placed with his brother. With a short Flames he erased his brother’s expensive envelope and allowed himself a small smile as the elegant scrawl disappeared, before ripping the simpler letter open.

_I have information crucial to Jarl Ulfric that you will need. Meet me tonight in Kynesgrove._

_Delphine._

Well, no sleep for him tonight then.

†††

Kynesgrove seemed cozy enough for a farmer’s village outside the city gates. The wooden cottages stood huddled together on the mountainsides with white roofs glittering in the moonlight, because _of course_ it was snowing.

When Kaermo left Skyrim, he never wanted to see this much snow again.

There was no sign of Delphine on the main road so Kaermo made his way over to the Braidwood Inn. Better to wait huddled by the fire than in the snow. The door flew open, following the strong wind, when he turned the handle but after a brief struggle, he managed to close it behind him.

He ordered a bottle of mead from the innkeeper and moved to sit down at the hearth.

The door that he had so diligently closed flew open.

“MAMA! MAMA! A DRAGON!”

The innkeeper grabbed her son from the doorway just as Kaermo ran out of the inn. This could not be a coincidence.

Delphine thought he should act as the Dragonborn and after she had asked to meet him here, a dragon appeared.

He heard the telltale swoosh from large wings moving in the sky and ducked behind a tree but it did nothing but fly past him. It was not attacking the village then. He got up from his hiding place and ran after the dragon with his knives clutched in his hands.

The dragon kept flying until it reached a barren plateau where it hovered in the air and spoke in a familiar tone.

"Sahloknir, ziil gro dovah ulse!" _Sahloknir,_ _I bind your dragonspirit for eternity!_

It was the dragon from Helgen; Alduin the World-Eater! Like the crack of a whip, its booming voice let out: "Slen Tiid Vo!" _Flesh, Time, Undo!_

The earth rumbled. A crack spread through the rock, making the world shake as it tore through the terrain. Kaermo fell to his knees in the snow and watched as the ground opened before him and a leathery being crawled out. It was another dragon, thin and lean, but roaring in delight.

”Alduin, thuri! Boaan tiid vokriiha suleyksejun kruziik?” _Has the time arrived to restore your ancient dominion?_

Its call was answered by its master. Kaermo shivered where he sat on the ground, his head aching from the sounds. Where was Delphine? What was he supposed to do?

The two dragons he had slayed had died by the combined efforts of many people and both times he had gotten hurt. He wasn’t some Nord who thought he could take on more than he was capable of, which meant he knew there was no way he could win on his own against two dragons.

A hand shot out from behind a cliff and pulled him to the ground. He kept any shocked sounds inside by sheer force of will, barely reacting as if he had actually expected to be pulled away from watching two dragons conversing. As he laid on his back, blinking in the snow, he found himself staring up at Delphine.

“Are you prepared to fight, dragonborn?”

He nodded hesitantly. Their strength had doubled after all and she seemed to be the dragon fighting expert, if there was something like that, so he was in good company.

She gestured for him to follow her lead and crouched behind the rock outcropping with a bow in hand. They started firing and in turn the dragons fixed their attention on them.

The largest one, Alduin, flew high up into the air and disappeared while the other crawled towards them. Its scaly body glimmered in the faint light from the moon.

One dragon shouldn't be too much of a problem for the two of them. 

“Dovahkiin!”

Kaermo grabbed his sword. As the dragon thrust its head forward to bite him, he rolled to the right and stabbed it in the neck. Dark blood dripped over the blade. The dragon roared and whipped its head towards him and Kaermo threw himself behind the rock again as its belly started to glow. But instead of a ray of fire, it let out another roar of pain. Delphine must stopped it. Kaermo quickly left his hiding place and came face to hind leg with it.

He had an idea. It was a bit reckless but it might be more efficient than slashing continuously at the beast.

Since the dragon’s attention seemed to be held by Delphine, this was his chance. He climbed its leg, using it as a stepping point to leap onto its back. It shook itself under him as though trying to shake him off while he ran across the scaly back, leaning to this side and that, before reaching its neck. Swiftly, he lifted his blade and stabbed it between the vertebras.

It raised its head in one last roar before death brought the body to the ground with a heavy thud. Kaermo jumped from its back just as the golden light started swirling around it, baring the skeleton.

He turned to Delphine with a glare. “Why did you lure me out here?”

“I did not lure you. The information that I promised you really is important if you want to save him.”

Judging by how vaguely she phrased her sentences she was being ominous on purpose. Which meant that she probably wanted something else from him before he got the information. “What do you know?”

“Do you not care how I knew that something would happen right here in Kynesgrove?”

“If you must tell me then do it.”

“I have a map of dragon burial sites. Alduin is resurrecting the same dragons that lived during the Merethic Era; the ones that fought in the Dragon War.”

She was trying to impress the importance of the Dragonborn on him, but he already had his purpose in this world. While he might actually admire her for her strength, her resolution to bring him into her quest was frustrating.

“You and everyone else in Skyrim can kill dragons just as well as I can.”

“You do not understand, elf. What does it mean that he brings the dead back to life? _How_ is he resurrecting them?”

Kaermo blinked at her. “I absorb their souls. And if I’m not there when they die, he might resurrect them again and again.”

She smiled. “Yes. We can all fight but you are the only one who can make it end.”

What it meant for him was that he would eventually have to act as the Dragonborn, for the sake of his own homeland if nothing else. The dragons certainly wouldn’t be content with reigning over Skyrim and he didn’t want them anywhere near Alinor.

“I will do my part then. But for now tell me what you know.”

†††

_That ominous, self-important, egotistical s’wit!_

Kaermo ran back to the Palace of the Kings in a third of the time he took to leave it. He was out of breath, leaning forward with his hands against his knees by the time he reached the staircase leading to the upper floor and the Jarl’s quarters.

Someone planned to have Jarl Ulfric killed. And Delphine had kept this knowledge to herself during the delivery of the letter, their fight against the dragon and the lenghty conversation about dragon souls. Crucial information alright. She didn’t seem to care if Ulfric lived or died.

He climbed the stairs and looked down the corridor. It was eerily empty.

Two steps and he tried the door. Locked.

What if he was too late? Ulfric might already be dead. He had made such improvements in getting close to him. What if the Jarl had been murdered right here under his nose? Would Elenwen let him work with the next Jarl? Or would he be returned to Alinor for reeducation or worse? Would-

The door opened.

Jarl Ulfric stood in front of him, alive and well. He was smiling at Kaermo and everything wasn’t ruined. The assassin hadn’t-

The window was slightly open. Something dark could be dimly seen through the stained glass; a gloved hand holding onto the windowsill.

“My Jarl. I’ve realized how wrong I was,” Karemo exclaimed and pushed himself into the room.

Jarl Ulfric frowned at him. “Didn’t we clear everything up?”

“I shouldn’t have pushed you away when I actually wanted you,” Kaermo cupped Ulfric’s face in his hand, making the action sensual in case they were being watched, and tapped a finger on other hand discreetly against his own ear. “I was scared of what my people might say of me. But they won’t know what transpires here, will they?”

Ulfric shook his head slowly and laid a hand on Kaermo’s waist, his eyes steely and calculating. “How do you want me?”

“You have guestrooms close by, right? Where no one would look for the Jarl nor reflect upon why an Altmer stayed there.”

Kaermo leaned forward to place a chaste kiss on Ulfric’s lips. “Go out in the corridor and knock on the door if it’s safe to follow.”

Ulfric set his jaw as if he wanted to protest, before moving to do as he was told. As he left the room, Kaermo leaned against the wall and watched the window out of the corner of his eye. This was the part that might get him killed. Ulfric was out of harm’s way for the time being, which was the whole point, but he himself was alone in the room with the assassin.

He kept his breathing even and slow, moved slightly to shift his stance as though he was relaxed and bored but kept his attention on the window.

A sharp knock on the door. He was out of the room in two seconds.

Ulfric’s hand enclosed his and rough fingers swept over his knuckles as he was tugged towards the room on the opposite side of the corridor. Tingling feelings spread through his arms. But this was not the time to be affected by mere touch, and thankfully he only needed to think of the assassin to clear his mind of everything else.

He pushed Ulfric into the room and pulled the door shut behind them. The new room had one way in, the now closed door, limiting the ways the assassin could surprise them.

Ulfric went over to the wardrobe and pulled out a sword, before moving over to stand beside the door. His eyes were glued to it and the ice-cold determination in them would have made any opponent think twice. Only this enemy attacked from the back.

Seconds ticked by and the door stayed closed. The assassin would wait for a better moment then, or perhaps their act hadn’t been convincing.

Kaermo placed himself in the middle of the room, knives in hands, and let out a moan loud enough to be heard through the door.

There were footsteps in the corridor.

“Oh,” Kaermo gasped and kicked the bed to slam it into the wall.

Silence. Who was out there?

Another moan. “Please.”

The handle turned, slowly, slowly. No one who had any sort of normal business would open the door considering what could be heard through it.

Blood was roaring in his head. He breathed slowly in through his nose, out through his mouth. The door opened.

He threw one of his knives and heard it hitting metal. While he couldn’t see who stood in the doorway, the assassin had effortlessly parried his attack.

It was too dark for them to win this fight.

The Dark Brotherhood wore shrouded armor and hid in the shadows and their mere presence meant that someone had ordered a hit on Ulfric.

The Jarl would have as much trouble seeing the assassin as he did. He needed his protection.

Kaermo reacted. No thought only action.

He lifted his hands but one word came out of his mouth and the room lit up like the gates of Oblivion. “Yol!”

_Fire!_

The smell of burning flesh filled the air as the assassin lit up. An inhuman scream tore from its throat but still burning it moved towards Ulfric, slashing its blade as far as it reached. “Hail Sithis!”

Kaermo crumpled to the floor, his hands scratching at his throat as though he could tear the burning Dovahzul from his body with his nails.

He hadn’t planned to speak the dragon’s tongue. In fact, he’d moved his hands to form a simple Flames spell, not caring if he revealed his Destruction powers when Ulfric might die. Somehow a Shout left his lips instead, with the same intention to burn but with an added streak of uncontrollable strength.

Fire had come through his throat. Before it hit his victim, it had burned its way through his own body.

While Ulfric fought what was left of the assassin, Kaermo could barely watch. His vision was turning fuzzy as his head swam with pain. He turned his gaze to the floor, steadying himself with a hand against the bed. There was a whimper that wanted to leave him but it was stuck down in his chest where the pain began. Breathe, breathe, breathe.

When the fighting stopped he didn’t notice, but suddenly he felt a light touch at his shoulder. He looked up into green eyes and accepted the hand to help him to his feet. On the floor in front of him laid a beheaded, burned body and an unseeing head. The putrid stench coming from the flesh caused him to gag and then jerk with pain as the movement tussled his already abused throat.

Ulfric stilled him with an arm around his back and tucked him into his side. Together they walked out of the room, leaving the dead assassin behind them.

†††

Stormcloaks had flooded the corridor. The Shout, the fire and the clang of blades were all sure signs that something had gone terribly wrong on the upper floor. 

They swarmed Ulfric asking him about the fight while Kaermo was herded away by the gentle hands of the court-wizard, Wuunferth the Unliving. He was put to bed at the barracks and fed potion after potion. As their magic spread through his body, the burning sensation in his throat gave way to a slow but bearable ache and he found he could actually make sounds again.

“Thank you.”

Wuunferth looked at him, arching a brow with an air of superiority that reminded Kaermo of his own people. “You saved our Jarl. I wouldn’t do you any favors otherwise.”

“Nonetheless, I can speak now and I’m thankful.”

The court-wizard left and in his place, Lilija sat down on the side of the bed. “You just keep getting hurt, don’t you?”

There was a glint of something in her eyes. She was joking but at the same time, he couldn’t help but think that she might actually be worried about him.

“It’s a special talent of mine.”

“I recognize the potions that he gave you.”

“And?”

“You Shouted, right?”

He pursed his lips. That was obviously what had happen, but there was so much he didn’t know; least of all how he had done it and if people knew now that he was meant to be the Dragonborn.

“You need to talk to him if you want to contain this.”

“Hasn’t he already-?”

She shook her head, smiling slightly. “Did you think I wouldn’t help safeguard your secrets while you were a bit out of it?”

“My hero,” he joked but the smile that tugged on his lips was genuine.

†††

The dream was expected.

 _I still see the faces of the dead_ , Ulfric had said.

And that was something Kaermo understood all too well.

Late that night, or more accurately in the early morning, as he laid in bed – sometimes waiting for sleep to catch him, sometimes jerking awake with breaths coming too fast and nightclothes drenched in sweat sticking to his back – he saw not the face but the blackened skin of the dead assassin.

He hadn’t felt the smell of burning flesh so strongly since the gates of Oblivion had opened and Deadra walked freely into Tamriel killing everyone.

Giving up on catching any sleep for the night, he got up from his bed and left the dormitories. Walking the palace was a tranquil experience. The large halls were almost devoid of people and no sounds but the crackling of the hearth and the howling of the wind outside the castle walls could be heard. Unlike the days when the palace bustled with life, during the night there was finally a stillness which reflected the pale mountains surrounding the city.

He found himself in the courtyard outside the castle, huddled close to one of the fires and watching the stars above. The guards at the gates hadn’t glared at him for once. But he couldn’t muster the energy care about the improvement.

A magical attack would drain his magicka so this was nothing unusual in itself. But he didn’t know enough about the ability to Shout to understand why he was drained now. It was getting more and more obvious that he needed to learn more from Delphine. She didn’t seem to want to explain without getting something back however, and he didn’t have the time to dally around with her, hunting dragons.

“Kaermo.”

He didn’t jump into the air in fright, but he could admit that he shook a bit as he turned towards Ulfric.

“Thank you for saving us.”

True intent shone in Ulfric’s eyes but there was something that irked him about the saving part. “You can Shout too.”

Ulfric nodded slowly.

“Would you have?” As he said the words he realized himself the answer that he was searching for. “You killed High King Torygg with your voice.”

“But you haven’t seen me use that ability in battle.”

“All your Stormcloaks say that it was a fair duel.”

“But?”

“If you regret it-“

“Do I regret it because I think the duel was a murder or because Shouting someone from existing is a horrifying way to end a life?”

Kaermo shivered. “I burned him with just one word.”

“Sometimes I think that the way shouldn’t matter as much as the end result and I do believe that the duel with Torygg was justified. But other times, I remember that swords can meet shields and spells wards but nothing stops a Shout.”

“I need to learn to control it.”

“Aye, and the Greybeards at High Hrothgar could help you with that.”

Delphine had mentioned them too. Maybe that really was where he needed to go when he got the time.

“Does it always hurt so much?”

“It always puts a certain strain on the throat, but for me it worked like a muscle. As I got stronger with practice, minor Shouts didn’t cause as much pain. I’ve never been able to use a Shout that powerful without practicing it for weeks beforehand though.”

And there was the main point. Did Ulfric understand that Kaermo was the Dragonborn given the strange way he was so powerful and at the same time a novice?

How did the title and his seemingly innate knowledge of Dovahzul even correlate? Was he more powerful or had this been a special occasion? Warriors who fought with swords also performed fantastical feats in desperate times, after all. It might have been just that and not him, for some reason, being a legendary Nord hero.

“I told the men that my Shout killed him. Why did Lilija urge me to lie for you? What are you so afraid of?”

“I don’t know if I am. Afraid that is. But I understand why it might seem that way to someone who tackles life head-on. Caution is an underappreciated method of survival.”

“Why do you need to be cautious then?”

They were treading thin ice. To make Ulfric understand, he needed to reveal even more. But doing so might also strengthen his role by the Jarl’s side. “Imagine that the Thalmor learned that I had an ability to Shout and that I could absorb the souls of dragons. Elenwen knows my family, remember? If she found out that I might have some importance here, beyond being a foot soldier, she would use them to make me surrender myself.”

“Dragonborn,” Ulfric whispered, staring at him.

Kaermo nodded. “A woman named Delphine has been training me.”

“Delphine?”

“You know her?”

“Oh, yes. We fought in the Great War together.”

Kaermo processed that information. There was obviously more to be known, than her being an expert on dragons, but she still kept her secrets from him.

When he focused on Ulfric again, he was biting his lip in an unusual show of uncertainty. “You kissed me. But you didn’t look scared this time.”

Kaermo caught Ulfric’s gaze and held it as the moment dragged on. If Ulfric brought the kiss up, then he must have hope that Kaermo’d changed his mind. It surely meant he had another chance to remedy the rift that his reaction might have caused.

“I was unprepared the first time.”

“You had to steel yourself then?”

Kaermo stepped closer to him, cupping his face again. “That was actually me being afraid and not my caution. I would be condemned by Altmeri society for being with you. Even if I’ve left them, I still live the way that I always have.”

“Kaermo-”

“I do like you and it scares me.”


	6. Our Hopes and Our Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapters are getting shorter - sorry 'bout that - but I'm trying to update faster, so I hope it's alright anyways

After his conversation with Ulfric had ended and the Jarl had left for his chambers, Kaermo started walking to the Candlehearth Hall. It would be unwise to think he was safe at the barracks since no change in attitude could be expected. The Stormcloaks presumably (and hopefully) thought that he’d been saved by Ulfric’s Shout.

A crack of lightning rang out over Windhelm and shook the ground. Kaermo’s gaze snapped up to the sky but there was nothing there to indicate what had happened. Barely had he started wondering what it could be when the lightning turned into voices. “Dovahkiin!”

There was another crack before the early morning was silent again. But it didn’t stay that way for long. As he made his way back to the Candlehearth Hall, people were coming out of their houses to stare up into the sky just as he had done. They talked amongst themselves and he caught some familiar words; “Dragonborn” and “The Greybeards.”

The Nords seemed to think that the old men at High Hrothgar were responsible. Kaermo didn’t know whether they were right or not, but someone had called out to him using Dovahzul that much was clear.

For a few seconds, he considered going back to the Palace to talk to Ulfric. He would surely get a private audience and some advice, considering how their relationship had changed. But his body still carried the aches from two fights in the same day and he didn’t think he would speak very coherently unless he got a few hours of sleep.

A courier sat against the wall outside his room when he got back. She had drawn her legs to her chest and her head hung to side. Kaermo frowned and debated waking her up. She would surely feel stiff if she stayed like that.

Deciding to let her sleep, he had barely opened his door and winced at the loud creaking of its hinges, when she spoke: “Wait!”

Turning around found him eye to eye with the courier who hid a yawn behind one hand while handing him a letter with the other. “For you, sir. The woman I got it from said the man who handed it to her had told her it had to be delivered in a hurry. So I waited for you.”

Kaermo blinked at her. “Alright, thank you,” he said, handing her some coins before entering his room.

The envelope was in a sharp red color covered in some symbols of various regions. Inside, three words were written in a neat handwriting.

_New Gnisis Cornerclub_

He recognized the name. It was the tavern that he had woken up outside when someone dragged him to the Grey Quarter. He would go there tonight and see what she had made of his letter. This had to be Elenwen’s reaction.

For the time being, however, he needed a little rest before checking in with Galmar for the day’s training.

†††

Somehow, later the same day, Kaermo found himself outside Jarl Ulfric’s door with a tray. He should keep in close contact with the Jarl, he supposed. It would certainly be of help with getting more information.

Ulfric opened the door, smiling as his gaze went from Kaermo’s eyes to the tray and then back up again. “Hello.”

“Are you hungry?”

“Kitchen duties? Have you made Galmar angry lately?”

“I just thought that we could eat together.”

“My personal servant has good ideas, I hear.”

Kaermo curtsied with a smirk. “Certainly, my Jarl.”

They sat down together on the floor with their backs to Ulfric’s bed. The windows had been barred crudely by the hasty work of a blacksmith but Kaermo couldn’t help glancing over his shoulder every so often to make sure no one hid outside.

“It looks like a prison cell, doesn’t it?”

“Except you have a perfectly functioning door.”

Ulfric chuckled. “Well, not if Galmar catches us.”

“How so?” Kaermo frowned. Lately, Galmar had seemed to become more accepting of him as a Stormcloak so he wouldn’t have thought that he couldn’t be around the Jarl.

“He and I made a joint decision – after some mead, mind you – to not share anyone’s bed during the war. Both for safety and to stay focused.”

The words chosen were certainly interesting as they seemed to indicate that Ulfric had chosen him to share his bed. Was that what he wanted from him then? Someone to sleep with and to keep him company? That seemed easy enough to provide, now that he had gotten past his initial scare.

“Am I’m to be your secret bedmate?”

“If you want to.”

Ulfric’s apology for scaring Kaermo and now this seemed to indicate a strange fixation with only having someone willing in his bed. It was more consideration than Kaermo was used to, but there was somehow unease boiling in the pit of his stomach anyways. He’d slept with Men before. Why was this any worse? Why had he reacted so frightened? Why did he care if Ulfric only wanted him as a bedmate?

“I do.”

He let a smile onto his face in response to Ulfric’s grinning. It seemed he would make himself get used to the thought of sharing his bed before the fitting reactions would come more naturally.

“The Shout this morning… Do you know what it was?”

Ulfric nodded. “Aye. The Greybeards. They must have noticed your Shouting at the assassin yesterday.”

“How… Why did they do that?”

“So that you to come to them and they can teach you, I presume. They taught me how to master it.”

“And they want nothing for it?”

“They are pacifists and philosophers. Lay down your arms and they will adore you.”

Kaermo leaned back against the bed. Delphine had said they would want something, something that she had taken. He would need to see her before going to them. “How long does it take to learn?”

“For you, I have no idea,” Ulfric’s hand touched his cheek. There was something akin to wonder in the way he stared at him; his head tilted a bit to the side and a small smile on his lips.

Kaermo closed his eyes to try to breathe against the feeling of something crushing his chest. Someone to sleep with. Only another Man. He startled when soft lips touched his and Ulfric chuckled into the kiss. “You do need to be prepared, don’t you?”

“That depends on what you want to do,” Kaermo quipped, smirking at Ulfric’s exasperated groan and congratulating himself for acting normally again.

†††

Walking into the Grey Quarter at night, dressed in Stormcloak gear got him a few raised eyebrows. He’d decided not to change clothes as to not raise suspicion in case someone who knew about him saw him slinking into the New Gnisis Cornerclub, but it seemed his non-change also warranted some unwanted attention.

The Dunmeri barman looked up from his conversation with an Argonian to glare at him when he walked up to the bar. “Stormcloaks go to the Hall.”

“I have no love for the Nords’ mead.”

“Then you better cough up some tip.”

Kaermo paid him double. The barman took the coins without comment and turned back to the Argonian man.

“You can’t let the barbarians walk over you! Do something!”

The Argonian shrugged. “I don’t mind the Nords.”

“But the state of the Assemblage!”

“Hate doesn’t solve anything, Ambarys. I wish we could live anywhere we wanted but firstly we need to get along.”

Kaermo leaned closer. “Why can’t you live where you want?”

The two stared at him, probably for intruding on their conversation, before the Argonian answered. “The Jarl has a decree in place saying that it is forbidden for Argonians to own property in the city. And so we stay away.”

Kaermo frowned. He’d been met with the typical Nord scorn for outsiders himself so it didn’t surprise him that the Jarl shared those thoughts. But he hadn’t known that Ulfric didn’t allow Argonians to live in the city. Was this something widely accepted? He hadn’t heard Lilija complain about it after all, and she was usually very vocal against racism. “But surely this is some outdated law that-“

The barman, Ambarys, cut him off. “Jarl Ulfric is the one who made the decree. His father wasn’t as hateful. Life here in the Grey Quarter, for us Dunmer, was better back then too.”

“But it’s been so long, especially by human standards, since the eruption of the Red mountain. You aren’t new additions to this country.”

“Skyrim is for the Nords; isn’t that what you Stormcloaks say?”

The Argonian tutted disapprovingly. “You judge him to harshly, Ambarys. He obviously doesn’t know the Jarl’s true colors.”

The two of them started grumbling at each other again. Even though they disagreed, they shared their view of Ulfric’s treatment of outsiders. Why hadn’t Kaermo been treated as badly by Ulfric? He was Mer too after all and more of an outsider than both the Dunmer refugees and the Argonian dockworkers.

As he sat there thinking, his gaze caught something on the far wall. He got up from his seat and walked closer until it became all too clear what it was.

A note written in red ink had been fixed to the wall with a knife.

_We will be watching_

_/E_

†††

A week or so passed by when he didn’t see Ulfric. Gunjar and Ralof disappeared as well and all the Stormcloaks he asked seemed unsure about what they were up to.

A few thought that the Jarl was in contact with Jarl Balgruuf of Whiterun. Someone else said that he was making a move to punish Jarl Elisif of Solitude for Roggvir’s execution. Another that the Greybeards had called him to High Hrothgar.

There were only two things Kaermo was sure of; the last one was false and Lilija knew something.

The day Ulfric left, Lilija had also been gone. But she turned up again after two days and stayed mostly in bed in the barracks.

Kaermo sat at her bedside whenever he could, hoping to confront her, but she never spoke when he asked something. She laid on her side and stared at the wall, and nothing he did got a reaction out of her.

†††

Galmar still held his training in the courtyard. With Ulfric gone, he was temporarily the leader of the Stormcloaks. Not much changed, except some people were missing and a few others a bit more outspoken.

“Just because that milkdrinker Elisif lets elves into Skyrim doesn’t mean we should,” someone said and spit at Kaermo’s feet as he was readying his bow for target practice.

Kaermo looked up. He hadn’t noticed the man before; another nondescript Nord with a penchant for xenophobia.

They were surrounded by other Stormcloaks. It was very clear, in their pretending nothing was happening or outright leering at him, whose side they were on. He caught Galmar’s gaze for a moment before the man turned back to the soldier he was instructing.

Had Galmar’s earlier words been lies? Did he not intend to help if his men harassed Kaermo?

“Is there anyone here?” The man who had spit at him waved a hand in front of his face.

“I wouldn’t say there is. Just a little human boy who’s afraid of the world.”

“Says the little _girl_.”

“I am astounded at the force of your insults, really, I am. Do tell me something else you find detriment of ones abilities. Maybe being a woman? I’m sure our fellow female Stormcloaks would appreciate that one.”

He wasn’t surprised when the man lost his temper and swung at him. There was strength and anger in the punch, but not much finesse and so Kaermo easily ducked and danced around him.

“Resorting to fists now, are we? Was it becoming obvious that a rational discussion is too strenuous for you?”

Someone chuckled in the group of Stormcloaks and Kaermo smirked in response. Thankfully, not all of them were as brutish as this one.

“What’s going on over there? Break it up, all right!” Galmar called from across the courtyard.

Kaermo looked up at him again and this time he got a smile and a nod. For some reason he seemed to have gotten his approval.

†††

Carrying two bowls of soup, Kaermo made it to Lilija’s bedside later that day. She was actually sitting up today and looked at him when he sat down beside her.

“Are you hungry?” he asked and handed her one of the bowls without waiting for an answer.

She smiled slightly and said nothing, but she did eat and Kaermo couldn’t help but smile back.

“Has Wuuntferth been here to see you today? I met him in the throne room but he only grunted when I asked him.”

He looked to her for an answer but when she only blew on her soup he continued. “I don’t think he likes me very much that man. Galmar on the other hand, he smiled at me today! Can you believe it?”

She giggled and Kaermo nodded earnestly. “I didn’t either. But he actually does know how to smile! I learn new things here every day.”

“Why would he ever smile at you?” she quipped, her voice rough with disuse.

He groaned in mock frustration. “ _You_ don’t care for me, but some people actually see my potential.”

“You’re potential to get hurt maybe. How are you still alive when I haven’t been around?”

“Because Galmar protects me!”

They stared at each other for a few seconds before chuckling.

“That’s the most ridiculous thing you’ve said since I met you.”

†††

His brother arrived in the midst of a snow storm. Autumn weather, Lilija had called it and had smiled in response to Kaermo’s sigh.

They met up in the forest outside of Kynesgrove, but in this weather they needn’t do much to hide. The thick winds of snow dragging across the mountainside hid everything from view and got rid of the tracks behind them as soon as they took a step forward.

While Kaermo had been in Skyrim for the duration of a summer and had at least a bit adapted to the climate, his brother obviously hadn’t expected this.

“No wonder the Men here are quite the barbarians, they do live like beasts in the wild,” Ancano stated.

Kaermo eyed his light robes with disdain. “You are dressed for Alinor so it is hardly the country’s fault that you are freezing.”

“Defending Skyrim are we.”

“Why are you here?”

“The Thalmor sent me. Anything more is not for you to know.”

Elenwen had informed him of Kaermo’s recent fall from grace then and of course, his brother was practically gleeful over it. “Do you have any reason to contact me, other than being an annoyance?”

“You would do well to remember your new place,” Ancano sneered. His eyes glowed faintly red as he tried to stare Kaermo down.

“I have fed and clothed you, little brother. Nothing could make me respect you.”

“Stop with your childish insults!” Ancano snapped, obviously having seen the amused glint in Kaermo’s eyes. “Elenwen wants results and you had better get them for her before she tires of you.”

“She would not tell _you_ that.”

“I have a letter to you from her. She can tell you herself.”

Ancano handed him an envelope. Its seal was unbroken, which was the only reason Kaermo actually trusted him in that it was from Elenwen. He took it and stared at his brother until he glared back. “Well, what are you doing? Open it!”

“Why are you still here?”

“I-“

“If there’s nothing else, then leave me be.”

His brother snorted unintelligently and since no words seemed to be forthcoming, Kaermo slipped into the snowy winds and went back to Windhelm. As he passed by the stables he thought he saw someone in the corner of his eye, but when he looked back there was no one there.

†††

He opened the letter in the safety of his room. It turned out to be something else entirely than the lecturing and disappointment his brother thought it entailed. New instructions!

_Make him win the battle of Whiterun_

_/E_

She must know something that he hadn’t heard more than rumors for. Ulfric and Jarl Balgruuf didn’t get along? The Stormcloaks’ next target was Whiterun? How did she get that information and how could she be so sure that it was true?

†††

Ulfric and his group of soldiers came back eventually. Kaermo never saw him, but the Stormcloaks spoke of a feast that would be held at the Candlehearth Hall to celebrate their safe return, so he supposed he would see him then. They drank and sang and laughed, sitting close to the fires and praising each other for their strengths in battle.

Kaermo was still a bit wary of getting drunk but he’d sat down with Lilija and a few others anyways. He did feel safer at the Hall where he could lock himself in his room downstairs if something seemed off.

One of the men chuckled as Kaermo grabbed a bottle of mead. “Does the elf even drink?”

“Don’t be rude” Lilija growled at the man.

The two started japing at each other and Kaermo leaned back, as much as he could when Lilija occupied half the chair. It seemed like the argument was mostly in jest as Lilija’s voice held a teasing tone and the man’s eyes glinted with mischief. Kaermo didn’t listen much to their words but their voices were soothing and he soon found himself closing his eyes, relaxing after a day of training.

Someone touched his shoulder after a while and he looked up at Gunjar. “You tired of these milkdrinkers yet, elf?”

Shouts and insults from the group were thrown at Gunjar, who only smirked in response.

“I’d make you pay for that if I weren’t drunk already,” one of the women stated, slurring a little.

“I look forward to it tomorrow then,” he answered and grabbed Kaermo’s shoulder, pulling him with him.

They moved towards the stairs and down to the bar. “We’re getting something stronger than that puny drink,” Gunjar said and glared at Kaermo’s bottle as though it offended him somehow.

“You plan on getting me really drunk then?”

“Someone needs to. Plus all of us want to hear you speak without those fancy words.”

Kaermo raised his eyebrows, but accepted the drink he was offered. It was thicker and darker than simple mead and it burned all the way down his throat. When he’d blinked away the tears in his eyes, he saw Gunjar smirking at him.

“Milkdrinker,” he stated fondly and Kaermo shook his head.

These Nords with their strange insults.

†††

Three drinks later and the soldiers Gunjar had left him with were starting to look a bit hazy. One of them clutched Kaermo’s hand when he tried to put down the latest bottle but dropped it on the floor instead.

“You, my friend, are gone,” the man said eloquently.

“Indeed” was Kaermo’s only response, since he deemed it too difficult to say anything more.

The man started fiddling with his hand and he decided it was time to leave their table. But getting up was a hardship. He had to focus his gaze to steady himself and groaned, frustrated that he’d let Gunjar get him drunk.

Stumbling a bit, he made his way across the room with no direction in particular in mind. His eyes scanned the crowds for Ulfric but the man was nowhere to be found. Maybe he hadn’t joined them this time even though the party was supposed to be for him.

Kaermo shouldn’t think about Ulfric, but that was a hard rule to follow. With his body warm and heavy with alcohol, he kept thinking of his hands, his-

There was Galmar! He sat in front of one of the fires with two other Stormcloaks for company.

“What?” Galmar asked when Kaermo got within speaking range in the noisy room.

“Where is Ulfric?”

Galmar stared at him and Kaermo stared back.

Was it forbidden to ask of the whereabouts of their esteemed leader? Did no one else wonder? It was a normal thing to wonder about the whereabouts of one’s Jarl, surely.

“I saw the Jarl downstairs,” one of the men sitting beside Galmar said.

Kaermo bowed slightly. “Thank you.”

When he looked up again, Galmar was smiling, so Kaermo smiled back before leaving, even though he didn’t really understand what he’d found amusing.

†††

Kaermo made it downstairs somehow, after pushing his way past groups of soldiers and stumbling into a wall after someone shoved him back.

He found Ulfric sitting in a corner, alone, and quickly walked up to him. Only when Ulfric looked up at him did Kaermo realize he had no plan or thoughts besides the intruding feeling that he wanted to be close to Ulfric.

“Ulfric,” he said, when the silence stretched too long.

“Kaermo,” he nodded.

“I- I’ve missed you” somehow made it out of his mouth and he pressed a hand against his lips as though he could catch the words and make them unsaid.

A smile broke out across Ulfric’s face and Kaermo wanted to fidget as his scrutinizing gaze moved over him, but he wasn’t quite that drunk yet. Instead of standing there like some fool, he sat down opposite Ulfric. His cheeks were flushed, both from embarrassment and the drinks, and he felt warm inside. Something was making his heart beat faster as though he were in the heat of battle.

“I’ve only been gone for a few days.”

“You didn’t tell me anything when you left.” Was he playing the part of a whiny partner? The words he spoke weren’t planned at all.

Ulfric frowned. “Why would I do that?”

“I-“ Kaermo snapped his mouth shut, stopping him from saying more. Of course the Jarl wouldn’t tell him about his every move. They were supposed to be bedmates, weren’t they? And bedmates didn’t have to tell each other when one went away. “It’s only the mead talking, my Jarl. Would you like to accompany me to my room?”

Jarl Ulfric nodded and got up in a graceful move. It seemed he, at least, hadn’t drank too much. When Kaermo followed him down the corridor, he tried his best not to sway or stumble. Unfortunately, that led to him concentrating too much on walking straight and almost walking into a wall, before the Jarl grabbed his arm and steadied him.

The hand on his elbow was warm and the grip was firm. Kaermo’s eyes followed it up to Jarl Ulfric’s face as the man pulled him into a room with him. Barely registering his surroundings, Kaermo found himself mapping out his face with his eyes; the broad nose, the full lips, his eyes. They looked at each other for a few seconds and Kaermo’s pulse roared in his ears as he realized what he was about to do.

He slowly stepped forward, until he could feel Jarl Ulfric’s breaths on his cheek. Then tentative lips touched his and he tilted his head to meet them. The first touch was chaste and quick, before the Jarl leaned back to look at him, judging his reaction. Not letting him go for long, Kaermo placed his arms around his neck, tangling one of his hands in his long hair and pulling him closer again. He was afraid for a few seconds that the Jarl would reject him, but then arms wrapped around his waist and soon after Kaermo felt a tongue pressing into his mouth.

Jarl Ulfric pushed him backwards through the room, not stopping till the back of his knees hit a bedframe. They started kissing again as the Jarl sat down on his lap. Slower, but deeper this time. Hands pulled the other as close as possible and their tongues explored each other’s mouths until they were breathing heavily into the silence of the room. Jarl Ulfric’s arms rested on his shoulders, trapping him in his embrace with his warm front and thick arms.

“Are Nord Jarls always this indulgent with their underlings?”

“I thought we’d established that you’re a noble.”

“Stormcloaks respect Altmer society then?”

Jarl Ulfric groaned and rolled them over until he was on his back on the bed with Kaermo hovering over him. “I don’t give two jazbays about your culture.”

“Then I’m not noble at all.”

Probably tired of his teasing, the Jarl tugged him down on top of him and silenced him with a kiss.

The sound of the door slamming into the wall snapped them out of their bubble. Kaermo tore away from Jarl Ulfric and sat back on his knees. He met Galmar’s scandalized gaze for a second before the man turned sharply to stare into the wall. “Jarl Ulfric!”

The Jarl got up for the bed quickly and nothing on his face showed any discomfort except for his red ears.

Kaermo looked between them. “What’s happening?”

 “There is an Imperial in the Palace,” Galmar started, only addressing the Jarl, “begging to speak with you, my Jarl. She wouldn’t talk to Jorleif so he sent for you.”

“It is important then?”

“Very.”

The two men exchanged another glance, telling each other something that Kaermo couldn’t understand, before Galmar left the room.

As they were alone again, Kaermo got up from the bed, steadying himself against the bedframe. “You must leave, I suppose.”

He’d meant to sound accepting or encouraging but somehow his voice came out weak and resigned. It was the mead, he shouldn’t have drank so much- He had no control.

“I will see you back at the Palace.”

Kaermo nodded. They would see each other. The question was if they would continue this or-

“In my rooms.”

He couldn’t stop himself from smiling. “Anything for my Jarl.”

The Jarl smiled back and then he was gone.

Kaermo sat back on the bed again. He leaned against the wall and tugged his legs to his chest. Now that the Jarl had left, the chill in the room was so much more palpable. He rested his head on his knees, wishing – not for the first time – that he could return to Alinor immediately and be done with this.

He was old by both Men and Mer’s standards, so why would he care if a Nord man only wanted to sleep with him. Why would he even want to think that the Jarl could be maybe a bit in love with him?

It didn’t- couldn’t make sense. If it did then he was doing something forbidden. Something that he’d been afraid of since his first kiss with Jarl Ulfric.

He shivered. Denial was tempting. There were many things in his life that he felt or thought but pushed away and resolutely _ignored_. He should do that right now.

At the same time, he had never liked the weakness that stemmed from not knowing himself well enough. He hadn’t predicted his reaction to the Jarl’s first kiss because he hadn’t allowed himself to think it a possibility. He hadn’t prepared his words for when the Jarl got back, from wherever he had been, because he hadn’t allowed himself to think that he would be overwhelmed by feelings. He hadn’t stopped to realize what he felt and it had made his actions unpredictable even to himself.

If he would go forward he needed to get closer to Jarl Ulfric. If he would get closer he needed to realize his own heart. If he realized he-

If.

Mead was a damned, damned drink and no matter how useful it was to blend in and socialize, he really needed to stay away from it.

He should learn some Restoration magic. There must be a spell to get the alcohol out of his body.

Shaking his head to himself and his sad drunken thoughts, he got up from the bed again. His Jarl wanted him at the Palace so to the Palace he would go. And he would let the man do what he wanted, and he would guard his heart because he did actually realize what was going on.

Even though it scared him.

He walked slowly through the still packed Candlehearth Hall, and out into the night. The strong winds were still dancing around, sending snow everywhere. They swept into the small passages and created white spirals that swirled in the air. As he reached the courtyard he was hit by a particularly forceful wind that sent him stumbling backwards. He really was too drunk to walk through the city during a snowstorm.

The guards at the gates chuckled at his bedraggled appearance before letting him into the dry, not quite warmth of the throne room. There was something like malice, in the thankful smile he gave them, when he thought that they had to stay outside.

He trekked through the large hall, spreading melted snow across the floors. His heart beat fast in his chest.

The Jarl thought he was attractive and wanted to sleep with him. Kaermo wanted something else. He wouldn’t react so personally again, because he realized his own feelings and where their differences laid.

Jarl Ulfric stood in his room when Kaermo got there. He walked up to the man and wrapped his arms around him from behind. The Jarl’s shoulders were raised high, his whole body tense.

“What’s wrong?”

“I-… The imperial, she had some troubling news,” Jarl Ulfric said, leaning back into Kaermo’s embrace a bit.

“Is it about the war?”

The Jarl shook his head. His fingers were clutching Kaermo’s arms to his chest as though trying to tug him closer. “I might have lost someone dear to me.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

In Kaermo’s embrace, Jarl Ulfric breathed in and out, in and out, three times. His voice, when he answered, was barely a whisper and Kaermo had to lean closer to hear. “Just hold me.”

†††

Light streamed into the room from the painted windows. Rosy and gold hues filtering the harsh white into warmth. Kaermo turned to his side yawning and blinked as he realized he was looking at the Jarl’s sleeping form.

Soft, full lips slightly open. Long blond hair framing the closed eyes.

Kaermo breathed through the pain in his chest. He shouldn’t be allowed to see the Jarl like this. Somehow being honest and steeling himself didn’t work, he still couldn’t make himself not feel when being this close.

He had been very right when he told Elenwen he’d been compromised. Maybe he should ask to be reeducated.

“Kaermo?”

The Jarl’s voice was rough with sleep. His light green eyes looked right at Kaermo for a moment before closing again.

“Yes, my Jarl?”

An arm reached out to wrap around his waist and tugged him into the Jarl’s chest. The smell of him enveloped Kaermo, making him breathe through his mouth to avoid getting caught in thoughts he couldn’t be allowed to have.

“I thought I told you to use my given name.”

He hadn’t realized he’d stopped saying it out loud too. “Of course… Ulfric.”

The Jarl smiled as though that satisfied him. He stroked his cheek and tucked his hair back behind his ear before leaning forwards to kiss him. Kaermo shivered. The length of the Jarl’s body laid against him from their entwined legs to their lips. His thick arm was like a heated iron bar around his waist.

“You are petite like a wood-elf.”

Kaermo stared at him. He didn’t know how to answer an idiocy like that, but at least it got him out of his thoughts. “Firstly, they call themselves Bosmer. And secondly, no.”

“No?”

“I am taller than you.”

Jarl Ulfric rolled his eyes. “I meant your slender physique.”

“Then you are thick like a barbarian. How do you like that comparison?”

“I don’t mind it.”

“Thick in the head-“

The Jarl pushed him over to his back and grinned when Kaermo mock-glared up at him. “Someone’s in a bad mood.”

“Well, maybe there’s a good reason for it!”

“Which would be?”

“Someone called me _petite_. I am older than you, taller than you; it is simply a _ridiculous_ idea!”

“Would you rather I called you wrinkly?”

“If there’s nothing between those two for you…”

“Maybe,” Jarl Ulfric started before leaning down to press a kiss against his throat, “there’s cute? Pretty?”

Kaermo didn’t know whether to bristle at the words, relax as more kisses were pressed to his jaw or let the pit of anxiety in his stomach steer him. Their conversation had distracted him from the matters on his mind, but now that the Jarl seemed to be turning his attention to something else than talking, his doubts came back full force.

“I hardly think there’s much of a difference between _petite_ and _cute_. And I do not understand where you get these ideas.”

The Jarl hummed against his lips before claiming them in a kiss again. No more talking then, it seemed.

Kaermo answered every touch with enthusiasm; his mind blank of thoughts till they were finished and he had slipped out of the Jarl’s quarters. As he walked through the corridor towards the throne hall, he acknowledged that something heavy pressed against the inside of his ribcage as though trying to claw its way out, before pushing it from his mind.

 

 


	7. A Serpent Lights the Sky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is longer - but also very late.
> 
> (sorry)

Dawn broke, a month before the planned siege of Whiterun, to shouting and chanting all over Windhelm. Kaermo was walking back from Ulfric’s room to the Candlehearth Hall when he heard the noise. As he passed the temple of Talos a hand grabbed him and pulled him into the temple.

His hand went to his knife, ready to fight back, before he could make out Lilija’s face from the dim light coming from the colored windows.

“You shouldn’t go out there right now.”

“What is happening?”

She shook her head; the amulet of Talos around her throat following the movement. “I don’t know why they do this. The Dark-elves are protesting but it won’t solve anything. And with all that’s going on, I expected for people to get angry.”

“They are protesting?” Kaermo hadn’t realized that they would. Ambarys at the Cornerclub had certainly been upset enough, but he had also seemed too dejected to do something. Maybe Mer-people were finally standing up for themselves all around Tamriel.

“They don’t understand what chaos they are causing and they probably don’t care either. Their Daedra want death and destruction while I went here to pray for peace and understanding. And demonstrating and shouting like that when things are already tense will worsen the situation.”

“Why would it?”

Lilija’s eyes darted towards the door as another chant started outside. “With what’s happening in Solitude and in Markarth, people are frustrated and scared. It will only make the bridge between Men and elves bigger if they complain of their treatment here.”

“In Markarth?”

“They executed a Nord man for worshipping Talos! Those Thalmor scum have infested the city and the Jarl is letting them do whatever they want.”

It must be Ondolemar’s work. Kaermo’s old mentor was placed in Markarth after all and he had no love to spare neither for humans nor their false god.

“And now Nords want to take their revenge on the Dunmer? Even though they’ve done nothing themselves?”

“They found an Imperial armor and flag at the tavern down in the Grey Quarter. People say the barman might be an Imperial spy.”

The only bar in the Grey Quarter was the Cornerclub so she had to be talking about Ambarys.

Kaermo didn’t think that he was a spy – a professional wouldn’t leave incriminating armor lying around – but it might be useful for the Thalmor if the Nords thought so. Civil unrest and neighbors accusing each other would certainly be useful for keeping Skyrim in ruin. Elenwen had probably taken part in causing this to happen. Make both sides treat each other worse until the conflict escalates and the Thalmor – standing outside the whole situation – could reap the benefits of a weakened Empire.

Kaermo should let this lie. For the Thalmor he should help make the conflict worse. Elenwen must have meant for him to do that in winning the battle of Whiterun. But it seemed to him as if the ones who would suffer the most from the unrest here would be the Dunmer in the Grey Quarter and they weren’t even enemies of the Aldmeri Dominion.

He wanted to speak up for them. Even if it was just here with Lilija. But now, given the infected conflict and how upset she seemed, he didn’t know if she would suspect him if he said anything against her.

“What’s going to happen to him?”

She clutched her amulet in her hand. “If he admits guilt, he will be hanged.”

“And you don’t think that anything should be done to stop it?”

“I might not approve, but what could be done? We are at war, Kaermo. If we are lenient with spies, people who have betrayed us, what message does that send to our enemies?”

He nodded slowly. Her theory was sound enough and he might have agreed if an innocent wouldn’t get killed for it. If the Stormcloaks found out who Kaermo was and executed him for his crimes then it would at least be justice in a way. He was guilty of treason to the Stormcloaks; Ambarys couldn’t be (unless he was very incompetent).

“Why did you pull me in here?”

“You’re an elf, and even worse a High-elf. If people see you they might try to avenge the executed by hurting you. Please don’t go near the Grey Quarter before things are a little less heated.”

Kaermo sighed. “I hardly think hiding will be productive in this, but I’ll do my best to stay safe.”

“Thank you,” she said, smiling.

She walked over to the large statue of Tiber Septim in the middle of the temple. Beneath it stood a small shrine where she knelt.

“Do you pray, Kaermo?”

“Sometimes. I used to go to the temple of Auri-El in Alinor when I was younger.”

She pat the ground beside her and he sat down, kneeling in front of the shrine. As he reached out to touch it, the steel lit up with a golden flare and he fell backwards as something like a gust of wind knocked him over.

“Kaermo?!”

What in Oblivion was that? Some sort of ward at the shrine? A magic performed by the priestesses of the temple?

Nothing like it had happened when he’d worshipped one of the Eight Divines and Tiber Septim wasn’t even one of the Aedra. It must be because of the Dragonborn prophecy. Kaermo couldn’t see any other correlation between an ancient false god and himself. Tiber Septim had been Dragonborn too, hadn’t he?

He blinked up at Lilija. His chest burned from the inside, just as it had when he Shouted at the assassin, but the pain disappeared almost immediately. “That is highly unusual, right?”

She gave a startled laugh. “Yes, that is not something I’ve ever seen before.”

†††

In the evening, when Kaermo had joined Ulfric at his chambers, the Jarl was sat on the bed clutching a letter in his hands. He looked up as Kaermo entered the room and set his jaw.

“Elisif ordered the assassin.”

“Oh.”

It wasn’t wholly unexpected for Ulfric’s primary challenger for Skyrim’s throne to try to kill him. Especially not since Ulfric had killed her husband. And if she got rid of him in the coming months, she might get rid of the Stormcloaks and put an end to the civil war at the same time. The moot, where the Holds would vote for their preferred High King, was soon coming up and if there was no strong opposition left, she would probably win.

However, from the talk amongst the Nords Jarl Elisif had seemed like a pushover. They called her a puppet for the Empire and said that the real leader in Solitude was General Tullius. Had Elisif done this on her own? Or had the Imperials urged her to?

“What are you going to do?”

Ulfric smiled; a grim, ugly version of a smile. “The people of Skyrim should know what kind of person their ‘High Queen’ would be.”

The Jarl wanted to shout from the mountaintops that he’d been mistreated then. However crude it sounded in Kaermo’s ears, it might be a good tactic since the Nords seemed to appreciate honesty.

“You’re certain that they would believe you?”

“Many believed me when I said I killed High King Torygg in a fair duel. And many came to me I called out to rebel against the Imperials. The ones who believe in the truth will hear me.”

“Are you trying to convince me that you speak the truth? I believe you. I only doubt that others will.”

Contemplating his words, Ulfric leaned back on the bed and tilted his head. “How could I be certain of your trust in me? It is not something we’ve spoken about.”

“Do you doubt me?”

“I never know what you think.”

“Really?”

“You must have noticed.”

There was something like a challenge in the way Ulfric raised his eyebrows and stared back at Kaermo. As though he was daring him to protest.

“A lot of times I feel you understand me better than most.”

“And that is something I would not know unless you told me. You do not show much, Kaermo, so I need you to tell me what you think and feel.”

What did he show the Jarl? Hopefully next to nothing. Whatever he showed should be lies, could be lies, and while they might be his thoughts they certainly weren’t his feelings. A Nord Jarl couldn’t be trusted with safekeeping those. An enemy, his mission, even less.

Kaermo laughed, the sound jarring in the silence of the room. “I thought we were meant to be bedmates, my Jarl. And here you speak of showing and feelings. Is there something I misinterpreted?”

“A bit of companionship is too much for you, I suppose. You can’t even talk about showing emotions with the man you bed every night.”

He’d somehow managed to upset the Jarl, it seemed. That wouldn’t do. It hadn’t been very long since he’d made a mess out of their relationship and he couldn’t afford to do something like that again. Elenwen had someone here in Windhelm watching him now. If they learned that he’d fallen out of grace with the Jarl again, his days in Skyrim would be over.

There wasn’t anything to do but push any protests he had to the back of his mind and bow his neck for the Jarl as though the man’s words really were law for him.

“I’m sorry if I disappointed you, my Jarl. You can ask me for my thoughts and I will answer. Or if you’d rather I left you alone, I will do that.”

“Do not call me ‘Jarl’ while in my bedchamber. That would be a good start.”

“Of course, Ulfric.”

Jarl Ulfric reached out to pull him onto the bed with him. “You seem so morose suddenly. And I do not understand why.”

“I do not like upsetting you,” Kaermo answered truthfully.

He was met with a soft smile. “Tell me those thoughts more often and you needn’t be afraid to.”

†††

The day for the siege of Whiterun came closer and closer. The Stormcloaks were practicing with battering rams. They were crude ones; a wooden pole ending in an animal head made out of steel, but with the force of half a dozen soldiers behind them they seemed useful enough.

A hand touched the back of Kaermo’s neck as he crouched to grip the battering ram. He tried to look back but the grip tightened till he couldn’t move his head.

“Them elven bastards are killing innocents in the west,” someone spat.

The rest of his group stopped in their movements to stare at them. A few glanced anxiously around as if they expected someone to jump in and scold them. “Rolff, let him go. He’s obviously not one of the Thalmor.”

“You think he doesn’t carry the stench of his race with him? That hagraven Elisif let them prance as they will! He’s the spawn of one of them, I tell you!”

Kaermo tore himself loose and turned around to glare at the man. He was met with the sight of someone looking more like one of the beggars than a soldier. The man was dressed in peasant clothing and his broad face was framed by a long mustache and dirty brown hair. “Who in Oblivion are you?”

Someone behind him answered. “Better watch your tone there, elf. That’s Galmar Stonefist’s brother.”

Kaermo blinked. Suffice to say, he had not expected that. He could see the family resemblance in the strong lines of his face and the deep-set glaring eyes, but Galmar at least carried an air of intelligence that this man had nothing of.

“They had another public execution in Solitude.”

Just as every other time someone had attacked Kaermo, no one reacted. He glanced around the groups of Stormcloaks but he couldn’t find Galmar anywhere. The man might be closer to the Palace as Kaermo’s group was at the far end of the courtyard. A few steps more and they would be on their way to the Grey Quarter.

“We should have one of those executions too. Set an example. Kill innocent Nords and we’ll kill one of yours.”

“I’m a Stormcloak, not one of theirs, you imbecile!”

“Roggvir wasn’t a Stormcloak, but Elisif still had him killed.”

Someone grabbed his arms. Kaermo tried to break free again but this time he was held too tightly and his attempts did nothing to stop them. While he was trying to get free they started tugging him away from the courtyard.

He’d promised Lilija to be careful. They would bring him to the Grey Quarter and he couldn’t- wouldn’t let them. He would have to use magic, or Shout. He wouldn’t let them kill him. He would have to reveal-

Pain suddenly spread through his head and everything turned black.

†††

Flickering spots.

He tried to gasp for breath but couldn’t. There was something around his neck and his hands were bound behind his back, so he couldn’t tug it loose. He blinked, gaze scanning his surroundings. Someone was pulling him up on a crate in the alley beside the Gnisis Cournerclub; the same place where he’d woken up after being threatened weeks ago.

Around his neck laid a noose.

The person holding him up suddenly let go and his knees swayed under him. He summoned his Flames to his hands, burning the rope around his wrists, but before he could destroy the noose the crate was kicked away from under him. Without anything to support him, he fell until the rope was stretched.

It tightened around his throat and he couldn’t breathe.

He couldn’t breathe he couldn’t breathe he couldn’t

†††

When his parents died he hadn’t been there.

He’d barely gotten home to Alinor from the Imperial city and they hadn’t met him since he left to join the Thalmor. His brother hadn’t seen him since the fallout. But then they were the only ones left in their family and Kaermo would bring him up himself, if Ancano allowed it.

He hoped he knew that Kaermo still loved him.

Dying in Skyrim hadn’t been his plan; he’d thought he’d live at least a hundred years more.

It didn’t matter anymore. After all, dying was final.

†††

There were people standing around him, he noted dimly. He couldn’t hear anything – it felt like someone was screaming into his ears, shutting all other noise out, louder and louder until he pressed his hands against his ears, longing for the quiet, tranquility that had disappeared alongside the vision of his parents – but he was mostly sure that there were people there. He could see feet all around him. Some wore Stormcloak fur boots and some wooden clogs. He was certain of that. As he turned his head up, he recognized two groups standing opposite each other; Stormcloak soldiers led by Rolff and the Dunmer of the Grey Quarter.

Ambarys wasn’t there – of course he wasn’t – he’d probably been stuck in the dungeon since the armor was found. He would be hanged too, like Kaermo, wouldn’t he? Or maybe not like Kaermo, since he was still alive.

A Dunmeri woman knelt next to Kaermo and helped him to his feet. Her hand was soft and warm against his ice-cold one. He thanked her quietly before looking up at the Stormcloaks again.

Rolff glared at him when he caught his gaze. “Not that easy to kill, huh?”

“The Jarl won’t be happy with you,” Kaermo rasped.

“The Jarl won’t care.”

It might be true. Kaermo was just another elf after all, wasn’t he? And he’d almost been killed without anyone reacting. But they didn’t know him like Ulfric did. Even if he and Ulfric were just bedmates, they did know each other and had fought an assassin together. If Ulfric died, Kaermo would care.

He crossed his arms over his chest, embracing himself to stop shivering. He shouldn’t care about something like that; couldn’t think of it right now. Showing weakness here could be a death sentence, and he’d had enough of those for a lifetime.

“You don’t think he cares about the lives of his soldiers?”

“Why would the Jarl of Windhelm care about an elven bastard? Less of them to kill if we finish you, I say!”

The other Stormcloaks shouted in assent. Some of them readied their swords as though they were about to attack any second.

Kaermo tried to glare fiercely at them; or in their general direction at least, since he found that the buzzing in his head started anew whenever his gaze caught the crate and the noose. Suddenly, he was pulled back into the group of Dunmers. He stumbled backwards falling into the woman who’d helped him up. She gestured for him to come with, gripping his arm and leading him through an alleyway.

“You won’t be safe out there,” she muttered as she pulled him into a house.

It was quaint; if anything positive was to be said about it. Dull planks covered the walls and the floor and the sparse furniture looked as though it had been put together by an amateur woodworker.

He was a bit too scornful, wasn’t he? She was his rescuer after all.

If it wasn’t for the Dunmers, he’d be dead by now.

“What about the others?”

She shook her head. “They have their magic. The Stormcloaks won’t dare to attack them.”

With one hand she motioned for him to sit down. As he went over to the bench in the middle of the room, she fluttered around him checking him for wounds. He tried to smile reassuringly and wave her away but he found that he still had little control over his limbs and face. She continued searching him, ignoring his weak protests, and when she saw his throat, she hissed angrily.

“Does it look bad?” he asked, pulling carefully at his cuirass.

“Yes, it looks bad. Do not touch it,” she ordered and picked up a jar from the table. “This will help with the bruising.”

He leaned back as she smeared the ointment over his neck. “Does this happen often here?”

“Impromptu executions? No. Scuffles though, they are quite common.”

The more he learned about the situation of the Grey Quarter, the less he felt he knew about the Stormcloaks. Why did Ulfric let them harass the Dunmer? Why did Lilija not care about their plight? It was obvious that elves were hated here, but he hadn’t realized how much.

Maybe this had also been the Thalmor’s doing. The polarization, the dissatisfaction and the hatred.

He still cared for his cause. He still wanted the Aldmeri Dominion. Still thought Talos had no place amongst the Aedra. But this was wrong. This wasn’t for the lives of Mer people or for their gods; it hurt those who Kaermo thought his life had been for.

Why did Elenwen stir up conflict like this here? He already knew the answer, didn’t he? She didn’t care

He couldn’t think

But still he felt

no

It was an ugly thought and he had no room for those while on a mission, or anywhere else really.

If he believed it then what was he doing here?

He breathed out slowly. The Dunmeri woman stilled her hands against his throat; moving more carefully as though she thought she had hurt him, had put the concerned look on his face.

 “What’s your name, if I may ask?”

“Suvaris Atheron.”

“And I am Kaermo. Thank you for helping me,” he smiled at her again, and this time it must have looked more convincing since she smiled back.

“You do not have to thank me. We couldn’t stand by and watch them murder you,” she sat down opposite him at the table and poured some mazte for them. “I’ve dealt with Rolff before unfortunately. But since I work for the Shatter-Shields, he hasn’t dared yet to try anything more than heckle me.”

If anything happen to her after this, he would be partly responsible. The thought scared him. A life debt to repay. It shouldn’t have mattered so much to him – honor wasn’t of any value to a spy – but he didn’t want to let the debt go unpaid. He wanted her to know that he was thankful and he wanted to repay the Dunmer. Maybe the Nord way had influenced him a bit.

“Do the Shatter-Shields protect you?”

“Not, really no. But their name carries some weight here which has been enough before. It seems like it might have changed though,” she muttered, glancing at his throat. “If they dared to take you, then not even Ulfric Stormcloak’s name is enough to dissuade them. Damn Elisif and her executions!”

Elisif. The Jarl of Solitude must be responsible for the polarization as well. Maybe Elenwen wasn’t wholly at fault.

It would be a comforting thought, if he could believe it.

Kaermo took a sip of his drink and smiled as he felt the familiar taste of saltrice. He hadn’t drunk any Dunmeri brews since he left Morrowind, and now, tasting some again, he found he had missed it. “How do you manage to get mazte here?”

Suvaris smirked. “Oh, the Shatter-Shields import all sorts of goods to Skyrim. I run their office down at the docks.”

The door to the house opened and Kaermo’s head snapped up while his hand went for his knife. He might need to defend himself. He couldn’t allow it to happen again. He’d been slack and almost died. If anyone came in here then-

On the porch stood two Dunmeri men; one of them grinning at Kaermo. “No need to be scared now, ey? Aval Atheron is the name! And this grump here is Faryl.”

Kaermo let go of his knife, smiling awkwardly. He had been calm. But as soon as he heard the sound of the door his brain went haywire.

When he allowed himself to breathe, to relax again, he could clearly see how safe the two men were. They both shared striking resemblance with Suvaris; the same red eyes and arched eyebrows.

“Don’t be so cheerful now, Aval,” Faryl, said. “He’s still a Stormcloak.”

“And it was a very bad choice, which I am sure he realizes now, but did you miss when they tried to hang him?! Any man that Rolff hangs is a friend of mine!” Aval exclaimed.

Suvaris rolled her eyes. “Please excuse my brothers, Kaermo. They seem to forget how to behave like civilized people sometimes.”

“No matter. I have the same problem with my brother. Though he might tell you that it is the other way around.”

Aval chuckled. “Ah, the beauty of perspective.”

“You wouldn’t know the meaning of it,” Faryl scoffed.

“Behave,” Suvaris sighed.

Faryl gave her a hard look before taking a sip of mazte and turning towards Kaermo. “So Altmer, why are you a Stormcloak?”

It was always the same question – of course, it was – as a Stormcloak Altmer he was unique, but he didn’t feel like explaining himself again and especially not to someone already suspicious of him.

He longed for a bed and rest. To lie down as he usually did after a long day, with Ulfric in his chambers.

“I escaped from the Thalmor and joining one of their enemies seemed a fitting method of survival.”

“The Thalmor?”

Kaermo nodded. There was something pointedly in the man’s tone that he didn’t understand.

“Been a while since I heard about them. There was a Bosmeri runt here some time ago who always chattered about them. Do you remember him, Aval?”

“Oh, yes! Malborn, wasn’t it? He joined them. Got himself a fancy job at the embassy.”

“Malborn! That’s his name!”

Kaermo frowned. The name sounded familiar and he racked his brain for who it could be, but to no avail. There might be a simple explanation for it though. If Malborn worked at the embassy, then Elenwen had probably mentioned him.

†††

When night approached, Kaermo left the Atheron residence to sneak out. No Rolff or hostile Stormcloaks could be seen, so he made his way to the palace and Ulfric’s chambers. The Jarl was sat on the bed, waiting for him, and got up when he entered. There was a tired smile on his face and he reached out to pull Kaermo into his embrace. But as he laid a hand on the back of Kaermo’s neck to bring him closer, Kaermo flinched and hissed in pain.

Ulfric frowned. “What’s wrong?!”

Carefully, as to not aggravate the bruises more, Kaermo tugged the cuirass down to show the marks left from the noose. “A group of Stormcloaks tried to kill me,” Kaermo answered, his voice rough and raspy.

Ulfric swore as more skin was revealed. “Who did this?” he snapped and started helping Kaermo out of his armor.

“I don’t know their names. Except for… um, Rolff, Galmar’s brother?”

The cuirass was finally removed and Kaermo stood with his chest bared. Ulfric’s hands traced the bruises on his upper body; his touch feather light. In a mirror on the wall, Kaermo could see the bluish ring left around his throat as a reminder of what had happened.

Jarl Ulfric’s eyes were narrowed as he surveyed Kaermo. “Aye, I know him.”

“Why would he…”

“He hates elves a bit more than the usual Nord.”

Kaermo shuddered. “A bit more, yes. I’d say he hates us _a bit_ more to want to kill me.”

“But he didn’t kill you.”

“It was not because of his own morals. The Dunmer stopped him.”

“In the Grey Quarter?”

“Yes?”

“What were you doing there?”

“They dragged me there to kill me. ‘There’s a grave in the Grey Quarter with your name on it’ someone said.”

“You weren’t there to talk to anyone, then?”

A chill spread through him as though he’d suddenly been doused in ice-cold water. “Why are you asking this?”

“There have been a few incidents since you joined the Stormcloaks. Some think you might be responsible.”

Kaermo stared at him. “What incidents?”

“The Imperials knew we were after the Jagged Crown,” Ulfric said, meeting his gaze. “An assassin tried to kill me and you realized it. A spy has been found in the Grey Quarter where you have been seen and have admitted you’ve been.”

“I’ve ‘been seen’?! Do you suspect me of doing something? Of sending an assassin after you? Ulfric, please, what is this nonsense?!”

Was Ulfric having him followed? How could Kaermo have missed Ulfric distrusting him enough to do that? This was a bad sign. If he couldn’t read the people around him then he could be in danger without noticing.

He had, for a while, dared to hope that Ulfric would care about him, care about what had happened. And he never would have thought he’d be faced with a questioning instead.

Maybe he shouldn’t have come here tonight. He could have lied; said he was tired, and hid the bruises until they disappeared.

“How did you know about the assassin? That is what irks me.”

“Delphine told me!” Kaermo exclaimed. “I helped her kill a dragon in Kynesgrove in exchanged for something that would help you! She knew about the assassin and told me!”

Ulfric frowned. “How would she-? If she knows something, she should come directly to me.”

“She doesn’t care about the war. She only has dragons on her mind.”

“Strange... I would have thought she’d care a lot.”

Another hint that he knew something about Delphine that Kaermo didn’t. Why would the Jarl believe that she’d care about the war in Skyrim? Who had she been when they fought in the Great War together? He needed to talk to her.

His relationship with Ulfric was a more pressing issue though. It had to be stabilized before he could even think of leaving for Riverwood. He had pushed it out of his mind after he and Ulfric had discussed what he showed and didn’t show since he thought it had been remedied then. Obviously, that hadn’t been the case.

Kaermo shivered; standing half-naked as he were in the chilly castle. “Are you still suspicious of me, Ulfric? I will tell you whatever you need to know, if you just ask.”

Ulfric looked at him – a glimpse of something in his eyes – while the rest of his face betrayed little of what he felt. His lips were in a tight line; stretched over his wrinkled face, but he didn’t seem angry anymore. He kept staring at Kaermo; his eyes returning ever so often to the bruises around his neck. “You’ve been odd ever since I met you, but I don’t know how you could be anything else. There is no one else like you.”

“Let me explain myself then. I only want to be honest with you.”

“I am talking about who you are and not how you act, Kaermo.”

“And you believe that your view of me is who I am? That I can’t tell you something true about myself without it being dishonest?”

“Our actions show who we are.”

“And you think I show too little.”

Ulfric frowned. “We’ve talked about that already. I mean actions, not feelings now. What you do, that you are here, does not align with who you should be. I cannot make sense of you.”

Could he make sense to anyone here? He hadn’t tried fitting in, had rather created a character of himself that stood out from the other Stormcloaks, but less so than he himself would have done.

It still hadn’t been enough to keep them from wanting to kill him.

He swallowed. Closed his eyes for a few seconds, imagining the Summerset Isles in his mind. The meadows, the forest, the city. Home. Where no one tried to kill him, where his family had been.

Where he knew who he was.

Warm arms wrapped around his middle and tugged him forwards. He opened his eyes to Ulfric right in front of him.

“You’re trembling like a leaf.”

Kaermo smiled slightly. “It’s a bit cold.”

Lying through his teeth only hurt when the truth meant something to someone. And this was irrelevant. The Jarl didn’t seem to think the murder attempt was anything to be worried about so he wouldn’t bring it up again.

It was only the cold after all.

†††

In the early morning, Kaermo climbed out of Ulfric’s bed and left for the Candlehearth Hall. When he got back, the inn proprietor stopped him at the front desk. “Did you forget to lock your room?”

He frowned. “I’m quite sure I remembered to. How so?”

“There was a man there. A Khajiit. He said he thought the room was vacant.”

“He must have broken in.”

Kaermo strode over to his room, his heartbeat quickening. He might have been naïve not to set up any traps in there. Not that he had left anything incriminating behind. All letters from Elenwen were burned after reading and nothing else that he owned tied him to the Thalmor. But if an enemy got in, they could still leave something there; a trap, an assassin, something to set him up.

He pushed the door open, scanning the room quickly. Everything looked as he had left it; nothing to indicate the presence of an intruder.

“Why would anyone do something like that?” the proprietor said, having followed him. “He seemed so earnest and I’ve never been one to think that the Khajiit are always thieving.”

“An expert liar then,” Kaermo muttered.

“This is not like Riften, young man. We are honest folk and we treat each other as such. Are you involved in any nasty business?

“I’m a Stormcloak. Some might want to hurt me for it,” Kaermo answered as calmly as he could. “Where did you find him?”

“There,” she gestured towards the desk. “He had sat down.”

“And?”

“Nothing more. He left when I told him the room was occupied.”

After she had gone back outside, he created a small lightning rune just under the door. It was Destruction magic, but of a kind that he hadn’t used for a long time. He had mastered it while at the College of Whispers and had not needed it since. Runes were made in anticipation of danger after all, and he was more often than not the instigator trying to break through the traps.

†††

The siege of Whiterun was finally set in motion. Jarl Ulfric and Galmar were at the front of the forces as they moved slowly but surely towards Whiterun Hold. Most of the troops were infantry; only a few soldiers had enough to afford a horse and heavy armor.

At the far back walked healers and mages. Lilija had given Kaermo a fierce hug back in Windhelm as they separated to join their respective divisions. He’d hugged her back just as fiercely; wanting nothing more than to see her again.

What she thought of the battle to come, he did not know. They hadn’t spoken much as most of his time had been spent hidden away in Ulfric’s chambers.

He wouldn’t have known what to say if they had talked. This was her fight. Her cause. And given how strongly she believed in the stability of Windhelm – no matter the cost for the Mer inhabitants – she might think that the Stormcloaks were justified in storming the city.

This was not his fight. Even back when Kaermo had just entered Skyrim and held little but disdain for Men, Jarl Balgruuf had stood out to him. The Stormcloaks would win the siege – that was the goal Elenwen had given him – but he did not want to see the look on Jarl Balgruuf’s face when his city was taken from him.

Why did Elenwen want Ulfric to have Whiterun? To weaken the Empire? To punish Balgruuf?

He remembered being angry over the shrine of Talos in the city. None of the Thalmor had seemed to do anything to target Talos-worship then. The worshippers were being executed now, at least in some Imperial Holds. But having the Stormcloaks take Whiterun would have the opposite effect. Talos wouldn’t be banned in Whiterun; not even in theory as it was under Balgruuf’s rule.

Elenwen’s orders for Whiterun couldn’t be because of Balgruuf and Talos. She wouldn’t be able to control Whiterun at all when the Jarls shifted.

Which left the other option. A weakened Empire.

And he did know that she wanted that.

When he first joined the Thalmor, he too had been intrigued with the idea of ruling all of Tamriel. An empire that would bring Mer people’s dominion over Men and Beast as well as peace, prosperity and respect for the true heirs of the gods was something to be sought-after, he’d thought. He still entertained some of those ideas, but he no longer believed that it could be done with the good will of the gods.

There would be too much death for any of the Aedra to approve.

†††

The Stormcloaks attacked Whiterun at dawn, a chilly day in Frost Fall. Even though they’d left the snowy north behind them, the plains around the city were covered in white as far as Kaermo could see.

He went into the city in the second unit. The gates had just been broken through by the battering ram but despite how little time had passed, appalling images met him as soon as he stepped into the fray. Dead guards were scattered over the streets; their bodies outlined with pools of red, contrasting sharply with the white ground. There were birds already in the sky above, circling the corpses.

As he’d made it into the Plains District, he started looking around for Ulfric. He hadn’t been allowed in the guard around the Jarl – Galmar’s decision, no doubt – and so he had to find him on his own in the midst of the battle.

At least he knew what Ulfric’s mission would be; to fight Jarl Balgruuf and secure the Hold before too many in the city had died. Kaermo would have to meet the Jarl of Whiterun; it was inescapable, no matter how little he wanted to be there.

He danced around, slashing his knives and moving from opponent to opponent, closer and closer to the Cloud District. He barely saw who he fought. He only noted the Whiterun yellow in the uniform they wore before killing them.

More deaths on his conscience. This wasn’t the time to ponder the needless killing, but the thoughts wouldn’t stay away. Could he do this for the Thalmor and still believe himself a good person?

Did he still want to-

No. But-

A shield slammed into his chest, making him lose his breath for a few seconds. He threw himself back into the fight with fervor. Don’t die here, don’t think, just act.

He fought his way into the Wind District, past the dying Gildergreen, up, up, up the stairs and into Dragonsreach. The large hall was filled with soldiers. Yellow and blue uniforms fighting each other; the ground beneath them stained with red.

This wasn’t right.

If the Aedra wouldn’t approve, then why was he still doing this?

In front of the throne, the two Jarls had locked blades. And Ulfric was losing.

Kaermo moved quickly through the room, ducking and fleeing instead of engaging in any fights. He made it to Jarl Ulfric’s side just as Balgruuf brought his battle axe down against Ulfric’s sword, sending him stumbling backwards. Kaermo stepped in between them before Balgruuf’s next hit could reach Ulfric.

He had moved without thinking. Balgruuf’s large axe hit his knives hard; sending one of them flying out of his hands.

There was no way he could win at hand to hand combat against this man. For a brief moment, he contemplated what to do, before deciding to summon his Flames.

“A coward’s way,” Balgruuf grumbled, as Kaermo’s hands lit up.

Kaermo sent fire against him, feeling no satisfaction as the man cried out in pain when it burned his hand. Balgruuf’s axe moved fast, slamming into the armor on his shoulder and lifting again before going down towards his neck. Kaermo ducked and stepped to the side, with his Flames already hitting the Jarl’s unprotected back.

“Fight like a man!” Balgruuf shouted and tried to slam his axe at Kaermo’s chest.

But he was too slow and Kaermo danced away.

“He’s not the one you should be fighting.”

Jarl Ulfric stood with his sword readied again. He had not attacked Balgruuf’s open back even though he’d had the chance, since Jarl Balgruuf had been distracted while fighting Kaermo. Nord honor or pride – whatever ridiculous reason Ulfric had – could very well get them killed!

The two Jarl’s faced off against each other again. This time however, Balgruuf’s right hand was shaking as he gripped his weapon and there was hunch in his posture; his burnt back probably hurting.

Even though it seemed clear that Jarl Ulfric would win, Kaermo had to make sure it happened. Before he could rejoin their duel though, he saw movement in the corner of his eye. He swore as a blow landed on his cuirass and spun around with his remaining knife in his hand to catch the next hit.

It was the Jarl’s housecarl, Irileth and her red eyes burned with hatred as she looked at him. She immediately raised her sword, moving too fast for him to duck or dance away. Her first hit landed on his knee, the second on his shoulder, the third on his blade. Fire would be no use against her. He hit back with his knife, moving just as fast as her and forcing her to defend herself.

Ulfric’s booming voice cut into their frenzy. “Do you surrender?”

Irileth’s head snapped to the side to look and while she was distracted, Kaermo slammed his knife into her hand. She screamed in pain and her sword fell from her grip as she stumbled forwards. When she’d found her bearings again, a Stormcloak soldier held her at knifepoint. She stilled immediately; her gaze fixed on the sight before her.

Jarl Balgruuf knelt on the floor with a blade at his throat. Even though there was blood at his temple and circles under his eyes, he managed to aim a glare full of hatred at Kaermo. “I should have killed you when I had the chance, elf.”

“You were honorable.”

“And look where it got me,” he spat at the floor, before turning towards Ulfric. “We need each other and we need the empire, Ulfric. You have us fighting each other when we need to unite against the bigger enemy. Those elven bastards can’t have our land!”

Jarl Ulfric paid him no heed, only motioned for soldiers to take him away. Balgruuf was dragged through Dragonsreach to be shown to the people of Whiterun and make them surrender. While Ulfric turned to his soldiers, Galmar kept watching Balgruuf until the doors of the palace closed and he could no longer be seen.

†††

Kaermo was walking back to Candlehearth Hall when someone called his name. He recognized Suvaris Atheron’s dry voice and followed her into an alleyway.

“We saved your life once and now we’d like for you to return the favor,” she told him.

Kaermo met her gaze; it was steady and calm as though she had complete trust that he would agree. “What do you want?”

“Save Ambarys.”

It was as he could have suspected. Ambarys Rendar the ‘Imperial spy’ had been sentenced to death and the Dunmer wouldn’t let one of theirs be killed without taking action.

Crude gallows had been built in the square in front of the Candlehearth Hall where he was to be hung. The execution would be a public spectacle, to make an example for all others of what happened to traitors in Windhelm.

The Dunmer might very well manage to save Ambarys even if Kaermo didn’t help them, but the violence would probably escalate then. While he could walk into the Palace of the Kings without problem, they would have to fight their way inside and the Nords wouldn’t stand idly by.

“Do you have some sort of plan?”

“We do. You only have to get him out of the jail and to the Grey Quarter, then we’ll handle the rest.”

He nodded slowly. It wouldn’t be good for his mission and Elenwen definitely wouldn’t approve. But he believed part of the Thalmor’s purpose was to act on the behalf of Mer people, and therefore, leaving the Dunmer on their own would be against his own principles. What was his dedication worth if he did not help when he could? He would do what Suvaris wanted him to, but he’d have to make sure that his hand in Ambarys’ rescue went unnoticed by both the Stormcloaks and Elenwen’s henchmen.

“I’ll help. But keep quiet about it.”

Suvaris raised an eyebrow. “Of course. We wouldn’t save your life just so that they could kill you some other way.”

†††

There was someone in his room at the Hall. He hadn’t been there since the early morning, but the rune was broken. Could it be the same person again, coming back for something that they missed the first time? Was it one of Elenwen’s henchmen? Or a Stormcloak?

He readied his daggers and kicked the door open. As it hit the wall with a dull thud, he was already inside the room, his stance defensive and his gaze scanning the surroundings.

Leaning against the wall and dressed in full battle gear stood Delphine. She arched a brow at his appearance, and kicked off the wall as he closed the door behind him. “When I told you to come to Riverwood after you’d made up your mind, I hadn’t meant for you to think this long about it.”

He glared at her; the last time he saw her still fresh in his memory. “We are fighting a war here and I can’t just leave whenever it pleases me.”

“You think the war will end once you’ve taken Solitude? Is that it?” Delphine snorted. “When General Tullius dies, the Emperor sends more troops and if you manage to win even those battles, you will have to deal with the Aldmeri Dominion. They will not allow Talos-worshipping here even if you’re no longer part of the Empire.”

Even though he was angry with her, he did recognize that her analysis was sound. He knew that the Thalmor would be a threat to Ulfric if he won Skyrim. Kaermo’s whole purpose in Skyrim was to make the war continue, after all. When the Nords no longer fought amongst themselves and the Empire had been weakened, the Aldmeri Dominion would step in.

And all of Tamriel would be at their feet.

Talos-worshippers would be executed; Lilija, Ralof and Galmar among them. Lilija’s family, whom she was so worried about, would all be killed. For the Dunmer in the Grey Quarter an Aldmeri Dominion might be an improvement, or it might not. The Thalmor certainly didn’t seem to care about those caught in the crossfire of the conflict.

Ulfric would be killed. Maybe tortured beforehand.

The thought of Thalmor autocracy didn’t seem all that appealing anymore.

“Are you alright there, Kaermo?”

He blinked. Delphine had dropped her scornful mien for a frown, watching him curiously.

“I had an epiphany, one could say,” he muttered.

More than that. This was treason. He had not just compromised his mission, he was contemplating quitting it all together.

He had been part of the Thalmor since his youth. If he abandoned them now- what did his previous actions mean?

The Thalmor would kill him if they knew. They would have him tortured and executed faster than he could run for Hammerfell.

He would need to be on his guard. And he should get away from here.

If he left the Thalmor there was nothing for him here. He wouldn’t finish the mission. And he wouldn’t stay here to keep feeling too much for someone who only sought a body to warm his bed.

“Ulfric said you fought beside him in the Great War. If I went with you… Could you help me watch my back?”

†††

Preparing to desert from two causes at the same time took some thought. There couldn’t be any loose ends. He handed back the keys to his room at the Candlehearth Hall, bought some plain leather armor from the Khajiit traders outside the city gates and went to repay his life debt.

Ambarys Rendar’s execution would be held in a fortnight, on the sixteenth of Sun’s Dusk. But Kaermo and the Dunmer would get him out before that.

The Windhelm jail laid at the end of the barracks. Kaermo passed by some fellow Stormcloaks on his way down but no one paid him any attention. He saw Lilija asleep in her bed and wanted to stop, to say goodbye, but it was too dangerous. What if someone heard? What if she tried to make him stay? Or told anyone? He simply couldn’t risk it.

In a bout of sentimentality, he left one of his daggers at her bedside. There was nothing fancy about it, nothing special, but she might recognize it as his when she realized he was gone. A farewell of a sort.

The jail contained a row of four cells and a corner with equipment for a torturer. All of the cells except the first one were empty.

Ambarys lied curled on his side behind sturdy iron bars. Sharp green lines from Resist Magic enchantments ran across the room, as protection against all sorts of offensive spells. If Ambarys had been something other than Dunmer, the cell probably would have been much less warded, but the Nords obviously believed that he might try to break out using his magic.

If only they’d gone to such lengths to ensure that no one broke the enchantment from the outside.

Since the lines were only prominent in this room of the jail, the resist magic spell was probably tied to an item in there. If Kaermo could find the anchor and destroy it, then the enchantment would break with it.

Maybe the man in the cell had seen where they placed it.

“Ambarys,” he whispered.

Nothing. The man was as still as before.

Kaermo walked up to the cell and knocked his hand lightly against the bars.

Was he asleep? Already dead?

“Ambarys!” he hissed.

“Who’s there?”

Ambarys rolled over, turning towards him until their gazes met. Kaermo gasped.

“Quite a sight, isn’t it?”

“Did they-“ he cut himself off. There was no time for asking questions with obvious answers. Of course they had.

Ambarys’s face was a bloody mess. His eyes were swollen shut and some teeth were missing from his menacing grin. “Oh, yes they did, then some others wanted their turn too. Everyone loves to hate a traitor. And every Man loves to beat an unarmed Mer to a pulp.”

“I’ll get you out of here.”

“Really?” Ambarys grimaced. “Why would _you_?”

“Suvaris Atheron asked me,” Kaermo answered shortly. “Do you know where the anchor to the Resist Magic lies?”

“The enchantment was already in place when I woke up.”

“Alright,” Kaermo turned around, surveying the room again.

A stone, probably the size of a hand would be enough to contain the magic. His gaze traced the green tinted lines on the ceiling, trying to follow them to the source. But the mishmash that they made didn’t have a clear beginning.

“Shouldn't they have sent a spellbreaker?”

Kaermo gestured dismissively at him. “They wanted someone who could get in here easily.”

“It doesn’t make sense.”

One of the lines seemed thicker than the others. Kaermo squinted at it and started walking through the room. On the opposite side, a sickly green light shone through a crack in the stone. “They built it into the wall,” he said slowly.

“You might not even be intended to get me out.”

“No, no, you misunderstand. I have found it.”

“Altmer, listen to me.”

Kaermo sighed. He realized that Ambarys felt a need to have all his questions answered, but now was not the time. They needed to get out of there before someone realized what Kaermo was trying to do.

Destroy the enchantment. Break the cell open. Run.

Then, when they had left Windhelm far behind, they could talk all they wanted.

“You were not sent here to help me yourself.”

Kaermo placed his hand against the cracked stone. It felt warm under his palm, humming with energy. He glanced around; his gaze getting caught on the torturer’s equipment. A sledgehammer. He walked over quickly; not allowing himself to look too closely at the brown stains covering the weapon before raising it and hitting the wall.

The Palace shook.

Kaermo tumbled to the floor, dropping the sledgehammer. Under him, the ground was rumbling as though an earthquake moved it.

“What in Oblivion-?”

Was it an earthquake? A dragon?

“Let me out, Altmer! Now!” Ambarys shouted.

Kaermo had half a mind to shush him, but the rest of him realized that the jail was the least of the guards’ worries given what just happened.

He looked to the wall. The enchantment had broken.

In three strides he was back at Ambarys’s cell and sent Flames against the bars. They turned bright red and yellow under the constant pressure of the fire.

“You stupid, stupid elf,” Ambarys hissed as he bent the bars with his bare hands.

The ground moved under them again. Shouts and screams could be heard from above.

The moment Ambarys was out of the cell he started sprinting through the room. “Don’t follow me, Altmer.”

Kaermo ran after him immediately. The Palace was crumbling around them; big chunks of stone falling from the ceiling crushing anyone who wasn’t fast enough.

As he caught up to Ambarys, the man shoved him back. “Stay _the fuck_ away from me.”

“What’s happening?! Just answer and I’ll leave you alone.”

“It’s the second of Sun’s Dusk, you S’wit! They summoned Boethiah!”

“They-?!”

“Suvaris or someone else. How in Oblivion would I know?!”

Ambarys sprinted faster and Kaermo let him disappear into the chaos of the Palace.

Had Suvaris Atheron planned to use him? Ambarys had seemed so scared to be close to him and as a Dunmer he certainly knew more about Daedric rituals than Kaermo.

He threw himself to the side, dodging a piece of debris as it burrowed into the ground where he just were.

Up on his feet again and seconds later he was running.

He reached the throne room sweaty and panting.

“Kaermo?!”

Lilija was crossing the room to get to him but a loud cracking noise sounded in the sky and she stopped halfway, turning her gaze upwards.

Was it a dragon then who had shook the castle and not-

Lilija screamed.

Her body laid on the ground, and over her stood a large being in dark robes.

“You’re not a very large offering,” the Daedra said. Their tale flicked behind them lazily while they looked at Kaermo as though they were a cat watching their prey.

“That I am not,” Kaermo answered faintly. He could see Lilija’s chest moving slightly; she was still alive. “Some might even say I’m fairly small. Or petite.”

“Not large enough for me. But I could easily take whoever I wanted.”

“Um. Who do you want? If I may ask.”

Boethiah smiled. “They summoned me to free someone. I want that someone.”

“Ah,” Kaermo saw Lilija open her eyes again and he begged silently for her to lie still. If he sent the Daedra after Ambarys then they might leave others alone. They probably delighted in the cruel irony of killing the one they were summoned to save and doing so might satisfy them enough to go back to Oblivion voluntarily. But he had also just repaid a life debt in rescuing the man. “He ran when the Palace started breaking.”

“A coward.”

The ground shook again.

“If I were him I’d set my course away from here. Maybe towards Morrowind?”

“My followers promised me a good offering. _I_ could take whoever I wanted. But this was not a good offering.”

Kaermo swallowed. Boethiah’s form grew until they were large enough to almost reach the broken ceiling.

“I will have their heads,” they hissed and climbed up onto the Palace’s roof. Every step they took across it could be seen in the stone’s that fell from the ceiling and heard in the loud thumps coming from under their feet.

Kaermo ran across the hall to kneel beside Lilija. She met his gaze and shook her head.

“What?!” he snapped.

“I can’t-“ she started, but blood welled out of her mouth. Her hands were pressed against her side and the armor under them was tinted red.

“No, no, no, no,” Kaermo’s hands flew to the wound. “Just heal yourself, Lilija. Heal yourself a little bit and then I’ll take you to Wuuntferth.”

“I can’t.”

“You can't? What are you talking about?!”

She closed her eyes, her hands falling from her side.

“No, no, you don’t!” Kaermo pressed his palms against her wound instead, keeping pressure.

Steps sounded behind him. He turned his head to the side about to call them over. “We need-“

A gloved hand pressed against his mouth, cutting off his air. He was tugged backwards, into someone’s chest and away from Lilija.

Kaermo thrashed in his assailant’s grip but to no avail. His vision got more and more blurry as he fought the arm that kept him from breathing.

“Elenwen is expecting you,” a Khajiit voice purred in his ear.


End file.
